A Ride of a Lifetime?

You may have running water and dependable electricity but you do NOT get random days off in the middle of the work week for Muslim holidays. Today is a Wednesday and I am sitting at home cooking rice and beans and enjoying a wonderfully relaxing day off.

Life in Dar es Salaam is moving along in what feels like slow motion on the daily but when I look at the calendar I realize that my time here is flying by! Sometimes I think that being at home with Iced Americanos and all of the cheese that I want would be great. Things here just do not come easily and while I appreciate that haunting realization that ‘I am probably becoming stronger and a more well-rounded as an individual’ I still yearn for many of the comforts back at home in the States. I am not saying that things, foods and comforts of America are the true source of happiness, mine or others, but I miss certain things that I took for granted.

Prime example: Transportation

I miss the freedom of getting into a car and going somewhere on a whim. Leaving the one-mile radius of my home is an all day adventure by bus usually involving a goal of buying an item for our house, a trip to the post office to send a letter or the occasional trip to visit students, beaches or a new part of the city. Buses are crowded. Buses are crazy. Buses are called Dala dalas. Buses drive on sidewalks. Buses don’t follow stop lights. Busses ARE urban Tanzania and very much so a part of my reality here in Dar!

Buses are recycled school buses shipped over from China. The busses were meant to carry very small children to school. (It is common to find painted walls depicting playgrounds, cartoon animals and the like on the insides of these moving mad houses). Each bus has about 25 seats (usually bolted to the floor) but the average trip into town packs close to double the capacity. These human sardine cans of wheels serve as the main form of transportation for the inhabitants of Dar.

One learned and observed realization of this place has showed me that Tanzanians pride themselves as being a peaceful country founded on the ideas of harmony and unity. Interestingly, however, if you choose to board a dala dala during rush hour, prepare yourself to experience the unexpected! Old women being elbowed, children being stepped on and drivers stepping on the gas while patrons are only halfway up the steps and onto the bus! There seems to be no mercy on these buses.

Oh, and did I mention that people pay to ride these buses!

So, with my knees jammed up against the half-bolted seat in front of me, it is the norm to share that bench with one or two others. There is almost always a small child within arms reach (or resting on my own lap) staring at or crying on account of my presence. (Mind you that child is crying because my skin is the oddest/scariest thing he or she has ever seen). All of that just to buy sponges to wash dishes or to send a letter.

To add to the fun, children are not the only ones staring. It is extremely rare to see a white person, mazungu, riding a dala dala. So, not only am I holding a strange child who is crying at the sight of me but I am sweating in a seat made for a tiny Chinese child while dozens of Tanzanians look at me like: ‘wow, he must be lost’. On a recent trip back form the beach I even had to ask a group of women to stop pulling on my hair… At first I thought that it was the wind blowing my luscious locks but when the brushing feeling on the back of my head shifted from stroking to yanking… I knew that something was up. I turned around to see a woman chatting it up on her cell phone and confused as to why I was upset about her pulling on my hair. I told her to stop, immaturely reached out and touched her hair and turned back around leaving her confused and shocked by my own reaction to the situation. (Yes, I pulled her hair. Not my most shinning moment but I had to show her how awkward the whole thing was and… that was the first thing that came to mind!)

Best ways to find humor in the situation include:

1. Making faces at children.
2. Staring back at the Tanzanians who think I am lost and then greeting then in Kiswahili.
3. Joking with old people. (I find that this is a cross-cultural trend that old people just like to talk and have young people listen to them).
4. If the children do not respond to jokes or faces, I find that pretending to cry myself usually confuses them so much that they stop crying.
5. Looking out the window. This is my standby. I never fail to see someone or something interesting, entertaining and unexpected walking the streets of Dar.

Anyway, back to my original thought: that ability to go anywhere, whenever I want is seemingly impossible. Mobility in this life is limited in terms of experiencing other areas, realities and sites outside of my immediate neighborhood without hassle! At the same time, I am blessed by the people of this neighborhood. I am energized by the mamas cooking on their doorsteps, the children playing soccer against our front gate and seeing the shift of people as they stop staring plainly at me as an outsider and start seeing me as a part of this small, bustling part of Dar es Salaam.

Freedom Criers

Last night I watched the movie “Freedom Writes” with Hilary Swank. About halfway through the movie I found myself crying… almost uncontrollably. Now, I am not really known as being a ‘movie-crier’. In fact, that was only my second time ever crying during a movie. Was this my first time seeing this particular movie? No. Is Longbeach, CA during the LA Riots similar to Mabibo, Dar es Salaam? No, not really. Do Hilary Swank’s character and I really have that much in common? Nope. Then I am still left with the question of why was I crying and why am I now feeling inspired to write about it!

Teaching is such an emotional experience. Each and every day I try to give something new and somewhat helpful to my students in terms of lessons, conversations and extracurricular activities. Some days, however, I wonder if the language skills, writing techniques and grammatical exercises are my real purpose here or my true gift to my students. Yes, the lessons are tiring and the tasks that I am expected to perform are sometimes obnoxious but the times in my day that keep inspiring and challenging me to do better are part of a bigger picture.

I have been the teacher to seek stolen rulers. I have been the teacher to dry tears when exams are failed. I am the teacher at parent’s funerals. I am the teacher who gives high fives and not slaps of the ruler to the back of the hand, the arm, the back, the legs. I am the teacher encouraging art projects. I am the teacher making birthday cards. I am myself and I am the odd teacher out.

Education here, in my views, weights heavy in punishment and light on encouragement. Hearing that the majority of my students will not graduate from the high school that admitted them and feeling that I am the biggest advocate for these young individuals is daunting, even depressing. I am lucky to go to work everyday and laugh, smile, learn with and love my kids. However, what is really enough and is it possible to do more?

Balloon Balog

I knew that these two years would be eye opening and formative, however, over the past seven months the lessons have been like a non-stop water balloon fight… YES, a seven month water balloon fight.

JCV Dar es Salaam: an epic battle of fun, craziness and bursting thrills (on the hottest day of summer).

I am not saying that living here is a battle of us versus them. There are no real sides of this adventure. Sure there are different angles, views and lenses that we look through but this experience is much more like a free for all! New ideas, understandings and people are constantly throwing themselves at me, rushing onto my radar and thrusting some new lesson into my heart.

Every time I am hit with a new altering understanding, I barely have time to wipe the water and bits of balloon and I can see a huge, ready to burst orb of wisdom hurdling at me! The ‘I thinking I’m an introvert’-balloon. The challenges of living in community balloon. The Kiswahili-balloon. The family back at home balloon. The missing things, food and people-balloons. The cooking fun new meals-balloon. The hetero normative balloon. The my kids drive me crazy and I adore them at the same time balloon. The co-worker-balloon. TANZANIA-balloon.

Hearing the stories of students becoming orphaned, experiencing a failing healthcare system, riding on overcrowded, unsafe city buses, missing home and seeing friends struggle to find employment are just some of those stinging hits that make the balloon fight overwhelming and daunting. Then there are the balloons that uplift and inspire such goodness. Weekends spent roaming through the city with Cat (my community mate), students singing covers of popular American songs during Oral English classes, visits at home from my students, limited but engaging conversations in Kiswahili and invitations to share meals with Tanzanians are those huge hits that soak you to the bone and inspire a laugh attack so deep from within that your whole body becomes overwhelmed with love and giddiness at the same time!

Each balloon can good and bad, wet and awkward, expected but surprising none the less and such an awe inspiring reminder of how dynamic my time here is. This Tanzanian water balloon fight ends in about 16 months and I am so torn between the thrill of it all and the desire to catch my breath that I find myself lost. Lost in a chaotic summer-time brawl!

While I may be lost in my thoughts and reactions toward Tanzania at this point, I am slowly finding my way and beginning to navigate through this water balloon blast of an experience. Who knows what will happen to me in the months to come or even I will learn tomorrow BUT I am standing at the ready! Bring it on Tanzania.

What is Africa?

What is Africa?

What is it like to live in Africa?

What makes someone or something African?

You might think that having lived here in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania for the last seven months I would be able to answer these questions.

You might think that I now have an insider’s view of this part of the world.

You might think that I understand or gasp or even belong to Africa in a greater sense.

The majority of my time here has been spent learning. Learning language, learning about people’s lives, learning about myself, learning to be far from home, learning about Tanzania, Dar es Salaam, my neighborhood called Mabibo. One of the most interesting lessons that I have been reflecting on lately has to do with the vastness that is Africa.

Growing up in America and being educated through the eyes of the Western world, certain stereotypes, prescribed ideas and visions of what Africa is has influenced my views within this experience. Of course! Enculturation, media and tendencies toward ethnocentric understandings are universal. We see the rest of the world through the eyes of our own culture. (This is one of the running themes of anthropology classes that I took during my undergrad). That being said, my understanding of Africa were largely based on things like The Lion King, Save the Children infomercials and calls to action clubs on my college campus. Have I heard the phrase ‘hakuna matata’? Yes. Am I faced with poverty and children in need? Definitely. Are there actions that the West can take that could bring effective aid to Africa? Yes.

I am embarrassed to admit this in many ways that it took moving abroad and living in a place so different from my own home to start truly appreciating the diversity and vastness of this world. Trying to explain what is African or who is African is impossible. I am still learning, seeing and feeling the extreme differences that make each person, tribe, country and location within the continent unique. Thinking about the experiences of Africans in Libya or Sudan and then comparing that to the longstanding peacefulness of Tanzania, I am struck by the vast differences of ‘life in Africa’. Wars rage, revolutions erupt, peace endures and Africa continues struggling to overcome the effects of colonialism imposed for centuries. As new forms of marginalization and oppression infiltrate African soil through big corporations, farm subsidies and neocolonial pressure, countless cultures strive to maintain their identities in this constantly changing world.

To emphasize my point, I think about how different Seattle and Spokane, Washington are. Then compare Washington State to the State of Mississippi. Even more drastically but still within North America, Mexico City and Anchorage, Alaska. Diversity. It is easy for me as an American to say: “Seattle and New York… different worlds”. Likewise, prior to moving to Tanzania I didn’t think twice about saying: “yeah, I would love to see Africa” or “Africa seems so interesting to me”. It is amazing how blanketing and overwhelming those statements are. Africa is HUGE! There are Africans with skin whiter than mine. Some speak French, others Bantu languages. Some live in villages made of mud and thatched roofs while others dwell in high rise condos. Some eat with their hands and others with fork and knife. There is just so much diversity that I feel inspired to learn more!

It is also a struggle to understand the diversity of Africa as many of the stereotypes that I had about Africa are true of or are within Tanzania. Tanzania contains the largest peak in Africa, Mt. Kilimanjaro. Some of Africa’s most famous, most impressive Nature Reserves, National Parks and Conservation Areas are here in Tanzania. The Serengeti, elephants, giraffes, lions, zebras, cheetahs and so on dwell here. The Maasai are one of the most photographed, studied, preserved and fascinating tribes in the whole world. (My anthropology professors cited this culture in almost every class I took). Tanzania is full of fertile farmlands and natural resources. You can fine tropical islands, deserts, mountain ranges, grasslands and forests. Tanzania is also part of the developing world making it impossible to overlook the extreme poverty and lack of infrastructure.

Tanzania has a lot going for it and I am blessed to witness so much of it. However, as learn more about this country, I find myself wanting to question more and more my biases and then dive deeper into seeing Africa in a more holistic sense. (Don’t worry mom, I am still planning on coming home at the end of my service... no cross-continent expeditions are planned as of yet). I do find myself being challenged to keep learning. I continue to push myself to see more, ask more questions, listen more, eat more crazy foods and so on! I guess in a way I am also challenge anyone reading this to see and think of Africa in a different light, as I am striving to do. Friends, have your views of Tanzania and Africa changed since you started reading this blog?

Surprise Attach

“Shea, your students are at the door.”

“Who? Students? Like plural?

“Um… yes.”

“How many?”

“Um…a lot.”

I walked outside to see a flood of six students waltzed through our gate and into the compound. Let me stress that these are not just any students but actually a gang of some of my most rowdy, rambunctious rebels. Yes, the circus began at three pm on a Saturday afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong, I may call them rebels but for every comment said out of turn and every joke that breaks the focus of the class, these same boys are hardworking, fun loving and more loving than I could ask for. Also, random visits while most likely illegal in the states due to child protection laws are all too familiar. We average at least two visits from students on an average weekend. They usually do not travel in packs of six, however!

Loyola High School is currently in the middle of terminal exams and the twelve days straight of testing is wearing on students and teachers alike. It was a pleasant yet unexpected invasion of these over-energetic, study-crazed students. Once I got over the shock, I turned to Cat my community mate and could think of only one thing. “UNO?” I said. “You read my mind!” She responded with a smile.

As soon as she and I got the game, the living room and the boys set, another know at the door pulled Cat away. She returned to the living room with one of her students who had decided to stop by with the goal of teaching Cat (also known as Miss Catherine) how to make henna tattoos from scratch. Yes, this fifth grader walked up, pots and pans in her school bag ready and excited to teacher her favorite teacher how to do this beautiful Muslim tradition.

There we were playing cards in the living room and cooking up henna in the kitchen.

In one room we played UNO for over an hour until my boys, whose attention spans are currently even shorter than usual, got restless and requested a break to play football (soccer) outside in our compound for a little while. Don’t worry, however, the football match was only an intermission as round two of UNO continued for another hour or so.

The card game UNO is our go-to, let’s entertain these guests activity. This simple, yet wildly entertaining game conjures up memories of trips to the Oregon Coast with siblings and my aunt and uncle, Thanksgiving Day afternoons and power outages passing time with the family. It is crazy to me how this game, with its Spanish name has entertained me, my family, my community mates and countless East Africans. Talk about spanning cultures!

All in all, it was a good visit from my kids and though they could and would have stayed all weekend, two and a half hours of UNO and football had taken its told on good old Mr. Patrick. Reluctantly, we parted ways and they promised to visit at least two or three times during our upcoming month-long break, a promise that I fully expect will be followed through. About fifteen minutes after that amidst Cat’s students drawing henna tattoos on Cat’s hands, there was another knock at the gate and another one of my students had ventured over with the intention of teaching me a card game. This student, orphaned at the age of eleven and currently living in a youth hostel, has visited several times over the past few months. He is incredibly kind, insanely polite and extremely gentle. (If I were to admit to having favorites, he would probably be on the short list). We played cards for a while, practiced a little English, joked about my knowledge of Kiswahili and made plans to hangout during the June break. (It looks like I am already busy for the break!)

After cleaning up the house a little and Cat saying goodbye to her student, it was all too fitting that there was another knock at the door with a student Gretchen (the third member of my community) at the door. Uno? No. Henna? No. Jenga? Yes. A rousing battle between teacher and student commenced. After the fourth round, the score was tied, two wins each. Finally, in a dramatic showdown, Teacher Gretchen rose to the top as the day’s winner as her student’s turn brought the Jenga pieces crashing down onto the coffee table.

A surprise invasion of students turned out to be a wonderful way to spend a Saturday. Amidst correcting exams, proctoring tests, and calming the stresses of students and teachers for over a week, I have felt overwhelmed and bogged down by work. This random Saturday full of visits reminded me to of the bigger picture. I am here to be a teacher but I am also here to love and learn from these incredible individuals. All children, and especially our students, have a wonderful way of reminding us to see and embrace the joy that fills this world.

Carry here, carry there

The things that we carry say a lot about ourselves. Sometimes it feels like what or where of how we carry defines us. That which we carry can help us fit in better. On the other hand, these things can make us stand out and not fit in.

During a recent spirituality night, a component of the program where my fellow volunteers and I reflect on our experiences, I thought about this question. The prompt was: choose two pictures and think about the dynamic between those images here and back in the United States. I chose one picture of an iPod and another of a Maasai warrior. The Maasai are a prominent tribe from Northern Tanzania who still wear traditional clothes and are known for their strength as warriors. (I have become fascinated and in awe of these people).

Anyways, looking at these two images, I got caught up in thinking about what we carry both physically and emotionally. The Maasai carry walking sticks, daggers and a forceful strength. In their plaid clothes called ‘shukas’, these men and women walk through city streets bridging a span of time and tradition. Then there is me, living my days teaching and growing with a small part of this huge city. Each time I see one of these elegant yet rugged warriors, I am shocked back into realizing the gift that is my life here.

Back to carrying and the reason for this post: where we go and how we go there can look or feel different depending on what we carry. While I like the image of one of these Maasai men with an iPod clipped to his delicately beaded belt, the two feel worlds apart. The unfamiliar and the familiar, however, are shifting as the hours, days, weeks and months define my perceptions, understandings and, simply put, me.

As I walk through the streets and walkways between houses of Mabibo, I do not carry the same things that I did in Seattle. Five months ago, walking to work with an iPod in one pocket and a wallet with an ID, atm card, credit card and so on, was somewhat of a security blanket. These items seemed essential and made me feel normal. There I was, securely stable and successfully striding toward my next destination with my things, my comforts.

Here, I rarely carry money, I haven’t an iPod and security is not the feeling that guides my path. What do I carry here? I currently carry thoughts of exams, exercise books and enthusiastic students; to-do lists, to-email lists and to-pray for lists. I carry friendships new and old. I carry uncertainty. Above all, however, I carry hope. Hope for my children. Hope for this new life. Hope for those I love back home.

I guess if I can conclude with my first statement that what we carry is that which defines us, I am defined by my thoughts, my to-do lists and my hope.

Lastly, to anyone who is reading this, I hope you are well. I miss home and I miss you. There is not a day that goes by that I am not overwhelmed with thanksgiving and gratitude for the people who have inspired and supported me. So, I thank you, I love you and I hope you feel a bit closer to me and my life here in Tanzania after reading this!

Coexistance

An ant crawls across the wall, interrupting my gaze as I attempt to focus of correcting tests. I have two options, squash or look away and continuing marking exams. To squash every bug that interrupts my life here in Tanzania would be exhausting to say the least. What do I do then? I co-exist. This idea of co-existing has infiltrated my thoughts over the last several days.

I currently co-exist with many things: people, insects, sounds, smells, sights, emotions, and so on. I have come to realize, however, that I co-exist in one of two ways. I live in an existence that is either ‘next to’ or ‘with’ these individuals, bugs, etc. What is the difference? Well, I am not quite sure but there is a feeling, an emotion and/or a connection that separates the two forms of existence.

For example, I live surrounded by ants, cockroaches, rats, mosquitoes, spiders, centipedes, millipedes, praying mantises, bees, flies, chickens, roosters, fire-flies, crows, stray cats and other living things that I do not even know the names for. I pick ants out of my coffee cup and fend off roosters on my walk to school but shy away from a real interaction with or appreciation of these ‘creatures’.

I then think about Dar es Salaam, this city that I now call home. This half-Christian and half-Muslim metropolis is a fine example of this first definition of co-existence. These two faiths live next to one another, in peace BUT just that, next to the other. Muslims sell rice and beans to Christians who feed their children who then play soccer next to a mosque that sounds the call to prayer. People just exist next to one another in most respects. The Catholic lives next to the Muslim. The Muslim student goes to Loyola High School (a Catholic, Jesuit institution). The follower of Jesus sells vegetables to a restaurant owned by a follower of Muhammad. Utilizing goods, appreciating the other’s presence and seeing the ‘other’ is a form of existence. A co-existence of sorts. Allah or God, they/we/humanity co-exists.

As these five months have slowly welcomed me into this new life in East Africa, my understanding of what, who, how and why I exist here has been shaped. I struggle defining what I live next to and what I live with in terms of existence. I can say definitely that I live next to insects or bugs and that I do not live in depth or intentionally or ‘with’ them. I live in a strong, powerful and meaningful co-existence with the natural surroundings; appreciating, respecting and loving the beauty of the natural world. People, however, are much more of a challenge to figure out. Community mates, co-workers, neighbors and strangers alike, challenge me to question this dichotomy and dynamic. Do I live next to you or with you? With whom do I affect, reach, connect, join, walk with, understand and/or exist WITH?

I am a very small part of this community while this community is a very large part of me.

In my heart, I exist in this place wholly but in terms of space, I occupy such a small fraction of this community. Everyday is a lesson and each lesson draws me one step closer to understanding this question of: With what, where, with whom and how do I exist in my new life here?