Dear blog readers,
I have moved my blog to this site. I hope you will continue to follow me!!
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Big City Life - Laura and Tassah's great adventure walking down the street in Yaounde
It was another cloudy, muggy day in they city. Everywhere was noise: street noise from taxis, cars, motorcycles, even steam rollers, and tractors; shop noise from speakers blaring out of a cybercafe playing afropop, people arguing on the streets, people charging their cellphones from people sitting under umbrellas at "recharge" stations....just noise. And with that noise comes the eye candy - a feast of colors -clothes, fruits, buildings, rooftops, people, people, and more people. As I walked through the madness, I felt for the tiny hand that reached up and grabbed mine, a hand that belonged to the only person who could call me "Auntie Laura" and make me really feel like one. Walking down the busy street with my 6 year old companion, I immediately snapped into au pair mode, only this time instead of "watch out for that puddle of semi dirty water" it was more like "don't fall into that ditch of raw sewage or get run over by multiple tractors fixing the road." And yet somehow neither one of us was really scared or fazed, because we knew the terrain. Instead, I smiled and asked him, "Where to, Mr. Navigator?" As confident as ever, Tassah pointed the way "This way, I'm sure." This is city life, and we were on our way to his summer camp program at EISERVI, a local nonprofit that I wanted meet to work with us on our program(to learn more about their projects, visit www.eiservi.org).
In all of the times I've been to "Africa" (vague concept I know) I've always had the luxury of living it up in the small town, or exploring that tiny village. This is the first time I've really stayed in the "big city," and especially with a real family. Cities in general befuddle me anywhere, especially since I have issues with directions and smart phones. Worse yet, you always feel like a number, getting shuffled in with all the rest, and your fear of pickpockets or thieves skyrockets. Yet somehow it was nice to be in Yaounde for a month, because was really able to appreciate the chaos, and understand how cities are different, not necessarily in a bad way.
When thinking of capital cities like Yaounde, you learn quickly that the image of "dirty, poor starving simple African people" exaggerates the reality. Here you have the slums like anywhere else, which you want to avoid at all costs if you are white and stick out like a sore thumb. Yet there are the other places - the fancy hotels frequented by wealthy foreigners and local government officials, or elaborate villas high up above the city that make the Berkeley Hills look drab. It's interesting how similar to home a city like Yaounde can be - the wealthy hiding in the hills, peering down at the reality below them from afar. The only difference is the difference - poverty and wealth are more dichotomous, with little room for middle class in between, and as "une blanche," you automatically get sifted into the upperclass system, whether you like it or not. If you read William Easterly's "The White Man's Burden," you'll understand more of why and how this happens.
What is interesting, is that despite these extremes, the wealth does rub off, if ever so slightly. Literacy is higher in the city than in rural areas, and thanks to the many hospitals and facilities, even the poor have access to more resources. You may not find a Peace Corps volunteer stationed here, but the Peace Corps Headquarters, along with the US Embassy live here, and try to help out in their community as much as they can. That being said, imagine if wealth was better distributed, how those street vendor's starving children would do so much better! Life seems to be really unfair sometimes.
So the question is: how is development work in a city different from a rural area? Well, despite the access to more, there is also less: less community, less trust, and therefore it is harder to create a network of people to mobilize for one cause. How can you connect people who are fragmented, coming from across the country and from all over the globe, speaking all sorts of languages, fearing the next person on the street, because you never know who will steal from you next....How can you create some sort of group that can make impact happen?
I can't answer this perfectly, but from what I've come to realize in Yaounde is, you have to create your own "community" - when I say community I'm not talking about place necessarily, but people. It often starts with a small group, who share a common vision, or goal, such as education and youth empowerment, and can be fueled by a common language or people from a similar region. Most of the people I have worked with are originally anglophones, coming from the Northwest Region of Cameroon. Teaming together through their common feeling of "being nonfrancophone," they have been great allies in our English dominant initiatives. A bonus is they also value education, as do we, the many teachers and nonprofit workers from ISSP in California.
As we walked out of our first joint meeting between EISERVI, Tassah Academy, and ISSP, I felt pleased to see how such different organizations can come together to create a new project. It was exhilarating to see how these different people could see and value similar things, and by working on this project we were creating a community - physically in Yaounde, but virtually online as well, with many partners in California. I was the lucky one who was traveling between the borders, building as many bridges as I could before my physical presence was demanded elsewhere. As we walked out onto the street in the night I could hear more noise: TVs blaring the World Cup matches, vendors grilling their suya meat, people laughing, talking, cursing their country's team (another great community builder). Standing on that street, I felt so at home, so part of this city, finally. I had found my niche, my community where I belonged. And I was excited to bring their ideas and values home with me, to share with their soon to be friends in California. I can't believe I have to leave next week already.
In all of the times I've been to "Africa" (vague concept I know) I've always had the luxury of living it up in the small town, or exploring that tiny village. This is the first time I've really stayed in the "big city," and especially with a real family. Cities in general befuddle me anywhere, especially since I have issues with directions and smart phones. Worse yet, you always feel like a number, getting shuffled in with all the rest, and your fear of pickpockets or thieves skyrockets. Yet somehow it was nice to be in Yaounde for a month, because was really able to appreciate the chaos, and understand how cities are different, not necessarily in a bad way.
When thinking of capital cities like Yaounde, you learn quickly that the image of "dirty, poor starving simple African people" exaggerates the reality. Here you have the slums like anywhere else, which you want to avoid at all costs if you are white and stick out like a sore thumb. Yet there are the other places - the fancy hotels frequented by wealthy foreigners and local government officials, or elaborate villas high up above the city that make the Berkeley Hills look drab. It's interesting how similar to home a city like Yaounde can be - the wealthy hiding in the hills, peering down at the reality below them from afar. The only difference is the difference - poverty and wealth are more dichotomous, with little room for middle class in between, and as "une blanche," you automatically get sifted into the upperclass system, whether you like it or not. If you read William Easterly's "The White Man's Burden," you'll understand more of why and how this happens.
What is interesting, is that despite these extremes, the wealth does rub off, if ever so slightly. Literacy is higher in the city than in rural areas, and thanks to the many hospitals and facilities, even the poor have access to more resources. You may not find a Peace Corps volunteer stationed here, but the Peace Corps Headquarters, along with the US Embassy live here, and try to help out in their community as much as they can. That being said, imagine if wealth was better distributed, how those street vendor's starving children would do so much better! Life seems to be really unfair sometimes.
So the question is: how is development work in a city different from a rural area? Well, despite the access to more, there is also less: less community, less trust, and therefore it is harder to create a network of people to mobilize for one cause. How can you connect people who are fragmented, coming from across the country and from all over the globe, speaking all sorts of languages, fearing the next person on the street, because you never know who will steal from you next....How can you create some sort of group that can make impact happen?
I can't answer this perfectly, but from what I've come to realize in Yaounde is, you have to create your own "community" - when I say community I'm not talking about place necessarily, but people. It often starts with a small group, who share a common vision, or goal, such as education and youth empowerment, and can be fueled by a common language or people from a similar region. Most of the people I have worked with are originally anglophones, coming from the Northwest Region of Cameroon. Teaming together through their common feeling of "being nonfrancophone," they have been great allies in our English dominant initiatives. A bonus is they also value education, as do we, the many teachers and nonprofit workers from ISSP in California.
As we walked out of our first joint meeting between EISERVI, Tassah Academy, and ISSP, I felt pleased to see how such different organizations can come together to create a new project. It was exhilarating to see how these different people could see and value similar things, and by working on this project we were creating a community - physically in Yaounde, but virtually online as well, with many partners in California. I was the lucky one who was traveling between the borders, building as many bridges as I could before my physical presence was demanded elsewhere. As we walked out onto the street in the night I could hear more noise: TVs blaring the World Cup matches, vendors grilling their suya meat, people laughing, talking, cursing their country's team (another great community builder). Standing on that street, I felt so at home, so part of this city, finally. I had found my niche, my community where I belonged. And I was excited to bring their ideas and values home with me, to share with their soon to be friends in California. I can't believe I have to leave next week already.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Traffic Jam?
As Victor and I sat in the car, waiting for the others to come back out of the hardware shop, we had just enough idleness to make us mischievous. "If I had known how long we had to wait, I would have walked," he sighed. "Let's go! You know the city, I know how to drive." As we started plotting how we would drive away with Madame Janet's car, she came back with Mr. Joe just in time. Because if you knew Yaounde, and knew my driving capabilities, you would immediately realize what a bad idea it would be for me, or any American straight from the states to drive in this city. Well, except for a New Yorker.
I think my favorite part about living in a big city, even for a month, is the chaos. It's almost like an equation - the bigger the town, the more traffic, and therefore the crazier the drivers. You start to learn the telling signs, when within a matter of seconds, a taxi can stop a whole lane of traffic by stopping in the middle of the lane to let out passengers, followed by the loud melody of a hundred horns of angry drivers, stuck behind. Or the fact that sometimes even a stopped taxi can't stop people from finding one way or another, to snake around, somehow avoiding the large trucks driving the opposite direction. Or driving on surfaces you never thought were drivable.
But my favorite is of course the motorcycles. Even if it took us 20 minutes to get to the bus station by taxi, when Janet forgot some pencils at home to give to her son in Bamenda, she managed to leave and come back in 15 minutes by bike. The way they can weave in and out of cars, passing the cars dead stopped in the middle of the road makes it the sure way to get somewhere on time. Or if you're me, it's the best way to get to school on time, thanks to Mr. Moses, the elementary school teacher who also happens to have a side job driving people around town on his prized possession, "the white horse."
As we weave through all the drivers, who honk, yelling out "ma cherie!" and "la blanche!" it's always quite the adventure getting to school. By the end of it we're both annoyed with all of the attention (one time he even had a taxi driver tell him to be sure not to kidnap the white lady). Not to mention it can be harrowing to just barely avoid other cars and traffic, as we plunge through the chaos, somehow untouched. I have to admit, I do enjoy riding through town because unlike in a car where you look out on the world from behind your window, on a bike you are part of the world. Rather than hiding, you feel part of it somehow, participating, talking to people, taking in the air, feeling as if everything around you is real.
I think my favorite part about living in a big city, even for a month, is the chaos. It's almost like an equation - the bigger the town, the more traffic, and therefore the crazier the drivers. You start to learn the telling signs, when within a matter of seconds, a taxi can stop a whole lane of traffic by stopping in the middle of the lane to let out passengers, followed by the loud melody of a hundred horns of angry drivers, stuck behind. Or the fact that sometimes even a stopped taxi can't stop people from finding one way or another, to snake around, somehow avoiding the large trucks driving the opposite direction. Or driving on surfaces you never thought were drivable.
But my favorite is of course the motorcycles. Even if it took us 20 minutes to get to the bus station by taxi, when Janet forgot some pencils at home to give to her son in Bamenda, she managed to leave and come back in 15 minutes by bike. The way they can weave in and out of cars, passing the cars dead stopped in the middle of the road makes it the sure way to get somewhere on time. Or if you're me, it's the best way to get to school on time, thanks to Mr. Moses, the elementary school teacher who also happens to have a side job driving people around town on his prized possession, "the white horse."
As we weave through all the drivers, who honk, yelling out "ma cherie!" and "la blanche!" it's always quite the adventure getting to school. By the end of it we're both annoyed with all of the attention (one time he even had a taxi driver tell him to be sure not to kidnap the white lady). Not to mention it can be harrowing to just barely avoid other cars and traffic, as we plunge through the chaos, somehow untouched. I have to admit, I do enjoy riding through town because unlike in a car where you look out on the world from behind your window, on a bike you are part of the world. Rather than hiding, you feel part of it somehow, participating, talking to people, taking in the air, feeling as if everything around you is real.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Hello, My name is....Mambo?
When Nicolas renamed me "Mambo," the newest member of the Mancon tribe, he didn't realize that it's actually a word I was very comfortable with, having heard it every single day, hundreds of times....in Tanzania, that is. Literally, it means "problems," but culturally it's how you greet everyone in Swahili, asking them to get their reply of "sijambo" or "no problems." I'm fine. I felt fine, once I had arrived at what appeared to be the biggest Mancon dance party in town. It seemed better than where I had been before.
Now the one thing about being an expat, is that it is so much easier for me to be invited to expat parties, and to meet other expats anywhere I go. I know expats, because I am one. But that being said, I'm not always a fan of the community. When I was in France, it was the surest way of not learning French; when I was in Russia, there were the few foreign men that treated women and talked of them in a way that made me cringe and never really want to date an American or British man, ever again. We're also very famous for being loud, crude, and considerably more than slightly alcoholic.
As I struggled through a day long pub crawl with new acquaintances, I think it wasn't any particular person that seemed wrong, or out of place, but rather the group as a whole. Beer after beer, the noise got louder, and dancing rowdier, and comments cruder. As I nursed another soda, I felt out of place, unwilling to put myself in any unnecessary danger by drinking, and rather embarrassed by my company. As we walked by a village, an elderly women looked at me in particular (the only unmarried white woman present) and shouted in French, "You shouldn't drink! You should get married!" "I will try, ma'am," I replied, "I will try." I mean, someday. It's on my list of things "to do." But back to being an expat.
Being an expat is only strange and uncomfortable if you hide away from the community that is hosting you. If you dive in head first and embrace it, then chances are you will find a way to at least incorporate yourself as a "welcomed foreigner." As soon as I said goodbye to the "gang" that was heading off to the nightclub, I was relieved to see Janet, who drove me to the Mancon party and laughed as I told her of my adventures. As we sat, eating achioo and yellow soup (my new favorite meal, kind of like mashed potatoes and yellow curried gravy), I caught up with various family members, and even got pulled into the massive dance party. They even had an incredible group of singers and drummers who were in the center, as everyone chanted to their hearts content the traditional rhythms of their homeland, somewhat far away. I guess we were all expats in a way, since they too, were somewhat estranged from the francophone, hectic city of Yaounde, so different from their peaceful, cool and polite anglophone Bamenda. I think their expat party was more fun though.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Fear of the Unknown
When I first arrived in Cameroon, I came with no expectations. It's better this way, when you are doing research, or development work, because when you create expectations, you're bound to be disappointed. Of course you should have goals, but those can be achieved in a variety of ways, so you don't box yourself in.
When I first arrived at Tassah Academy, I was immediately expected to present myself, my reason for being there, and what I hoped to do. I almost felt like a salesperson, selling an idea. In fact, every time I have to approach ISSP in a different way (for more information, visit my work blog: http://internationalschooltoschoolpartnerships.org/category/laura/ ) Every presentation was completely different - some were easy sells - a "yes, you have me already, sign me up!" those were the local ngos, or the younger, up to date teachers, who were excited to have more internet access and technology.
Others were a little harder though. The first round of teachers, as they stared at the screen (you know that 4 PM glaze teachers, when you've just finished a day of teaching). As they watched my powerpoint, some stares were just stares. Others were more concerned: "I don't get it, we already have a computer, why do we need tablets?" or "How are we going to use this in our classroom?" The parents were the same: "Why?" Well, normally I would say this is a perfect example of a program NOT to implement, because the community doesn't see value in it, right? Wrong.
Then came the parents who all signed up to learn more, or the father who showed up in the office, sat down, and said, "I would like to buy one of those tablets." Ok, or the teachers that showed up at the house at 8 PM to skype with teachers from California, and talked with us until 10:30, discussing how to move forward. Or the students who eagerly signed up for the classes offered their first week of summer break. Sure, there are many challenges, but we have faith that this is worth it. The next generation is a new generation of technology users, and the more advantages we give them, the better prepared they will be for the work force.
So excited to see what happens next.
When I first arrived at Tassah Academy, I was immediately expected to present myself, my reason for being there, and what I hoped to do. I almost felt like a salesperson, selling an idea. In fact, every time I have to approach ISSP in a different way (for more information, visit my work blog: http://internationalschooltoschoolpartnerships.org/category/laura/ ) Every presentation was completely different - some were easy sells - a "yes, you have me already, sign me up!" those were the local ngos, or the younger, up to date teachers, who were excited to have more internet access and technology.
Others were a little harder though. The first round of teachers, as they stared at the screen (you know that 4 PM glaze teachers, when you've just finished a day of teaching). As they watched my powerpoint, some stares were just stares. Others were more concerned: "I don't get it, we already have a computer, why do we need tablets?" or "How are we going to use this in our classroom?" The parents were the same: "Why?" Well, normally I would say this is a perfect example of a program NOT to implement, because the community doesn't see value in it, right? Wrong.
Then came the parents who all signed up to learn more, or the father who showed up in the office, sat down, and said, "I would like to buy one of those tablets." Ok, or the teachers that showed up at the house at 8 PM to skype with teachers from California, and talked with us until 10:30, discussing how to move forward. Or the students who eagerly signed up for the classes offered their first week of summer break. Sure, there are many challenges, but we have faith that this is worth it. The next generation is a new generation of technology users, and the more advantages we give them, the better prepared they will be for the work force.
So excited to see what happens next.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Football and Tradition
I will probably never forget the final to the Europe Cup of Athletics vs real. Not because it was a horrible game and real only won through unfair advantages. No, I will remember the game because instead of sitting at a bar, having a beer, I was sitting on a couch with two elderly ladies sat across from me, laughing and chattering away in the local Bamenda dialect, while we ate "achoo" and some sort of soup while the kids sat by, trying to stay awake.
In other words, I had crashed a party in Cameroon, and not just any party. A month after a child is born, it is custom for the aunts and female cousins to come visit and spend the night, celebrating and welcoming a new child to the family. Not expecting it, I was surprised when my host's brother allowed us to join the festivities, last minute. More surprising was when the eldest woman and head of ceremony made a huge speech welcoming me and inviting me to eat first. This was after I was hug attacked at the door by a mob of delightful grandmas.
As we danced and sang praising Michael's adorable new daughter, Athletics scored its one and only goal of the night, which turned Cousin Ben's dance into a cheer. As we ate, the aunties commented on the game to ours and their amusement. They even demonstrated how to cheer, which they thought was silly. I was pleased when I was able to drink a little whiskey on the rocks in the company of one of my new lady friends.
Being part of a tradition like that may seem routine to some, but for me it was an honor I can and will never forget. When you watch a family rejoice like that, and see the happiness it brings, it is hard not to be humbled and awed. As I looked into the infant's eyes I could only see my hopes for her reflected in my own. I gave her my own blessing, hoping that she will live to have better opportunities and choices than any of us, that she may take on the burden on her shoulders to make her world just a little better.
In other words, I had crashed a party in Cameroon, and not just any party. A month after a child is born, it is custom for the aunts and female cousins to come visit and spend the night, celebrating and welcoming a new child to the family. Not expecting it, I was surprised when my host's brother allowed us to join the festivities, last minute. More surprising was when the eldest woman and head of ceremony made a huge speech welcoming me and inviting me to eat first. This was after I was hug attacked at the door by a mob of delightful grandmas.
As we danced and sang praising Michael's adorable new daughter, Athletics scored its one and only goal of the night, which turned Cousin Ben's dance into a cheer. As we ate, the aunties commented on the game to ours and their amusement. They even demonstrated how to cheer, which they thought was silly. I was pleased when I was able to drink a little whiskey on the rocks in the company of one of my new lady friends.
Being part of a tradition like that may seem routine to some, but for me it was an honor I can and will never forget. When you watch a family rejoice like that, and see the happiness it brings, it is hard not to be humbled and awed. As I looked into the infant's eyes I could only see my hopes for her reflected in my own. I gave her my own blessing, hoping that she will live to have better opportunities and choices than any of us, that she may take on the burden on her shoulders to make her world just a little better.
Friday, February 7, 2014
New Set of Firsts
All of us have our firsts. Our first day of kindergarten, our first time in high school. The first time we drive a car, the first date. The first time we move away from home, the first time we live overseas. It seems like so many firsts can happen in life, and it just makes everything all the more exciting. But as we get older, it seems that there seem to be less and less firsts, because we have already done so many things. I hate that "never have I ever" game because it is so easy to lose. But before I start fearing that life is over at 26 (heheheh) I am in luck, because there are more firsts. If you aren't interested in my personal life, by the way, stop reading now, if you haven't already gotten bored.
This month has been a lot of firsts that I somehow missed in life. Some were not so great, like my car's first water pump failure, or my first time putting a utility bill in my name, but there have been some great firsts too: My first time finding a house to rent with friends, my first time buying lights for my new bike...my first time driving my car through a car wash. All of these things really seem normal to some people, but for me, I feel like a little kid again, trying to figure out how the world works.Oh yeah, and it's my first time in grad school.
So I guess this blog will have to adjust a little bit, because although I may travel, most of the adventures will be happening in the classroom, relating to things that may or may not interest you. But hey, there might be some fun along the way. Welcome to Monterey, California.
This month has been a lot of firsts that I somehow missed in life. Some were not so great, like my car's first water pump failure, or my first time putting a utility bill in my name, but there have been some great firsts too: My first time finding a house to rent with friends, my first time buying lights for my new bike...my first time driving my car through a car wash. All of these things really seem normal to some people, but for me, I feel like a little kid again, trying to figure out how the world works.Oh yeah, and it's my first time in grad school.
So I guess this blog will have to adjust a little bit, because although I may travel, most of the adventures will be happening in the classroom, relating to things that may or may not interest you. But hey, there might be some fun along the way. Welcome to Monterey, California.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
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?
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?
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, April 1, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
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.
Monday, February 11, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Life long lessons on how to be a good Tanzanian wife
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.
Friday, January 11, 2013
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!
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!
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Thoughts from the Steven Tito Academy's new volunteer
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.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
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
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
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)