To begin with, I am seriously considering a change to the name of this particular blog. Why, ask my loyal following (all half dozen)? Because, dammit, I’m going to live near a town called Mafinga, and I just...I just think there are too many good jokes to make about a town that sounds like “My finga”. For instance, the title of my blog could be “Pull Mafinga”. I’m just sayin.
Had my first try at being sick in Africa. It was awful, but I can do better. If thou be dhaifu of tumbo (weak of stomach), maybe skip a paragraph or two. In the lovely language of Kiswahili, they have an alternate expression for diarrhea (harisha). They say, “umeendesha” (you have been driving). Why do they say this, you ask? Because, when a certain person has diarrhea, their bodies tend to sound like a revving car. I found this expression odd. Then I laid in bed one night for nine hours, listening to my very own running of the Kibaoni 500, and remembered, once again, that funny expressions/stories stop being funny when they start being about you.
Had another example of that today. After we returned from town today (today being Saturday, when I wrote this particular part), and we found out that the local bus (which we call Rasha Baby, because it has Rasha Baby written on the back. (We’re not that creative. Sometimes we are. Not now.)) was broken (I asked “how do you break a bus with no brakes?” It might have brakes. I’ve seen it stopped. On hills...) and we had to walk back to town, one of my friends almost had her hand taken off by a passing motorcycle. And I realized in that moment that if I read a story about a PCV losing an arm while waving to a pikipiki driver, I would laugh a little. And that doesn’t make me a very good person. So one of two things need to happen: A. I need to well up with sympathy and squelch snarky comments whenever I hear about funny tragedies...and that ain't gonna happen. SO B. I need to invite, initiate, and help to propagate lots of good jokes if a humorous tragedy should befall me. Hold me to it folks.
Listening to a West Wing episode while I wrote this (this is the first of two West Wing references, the other...is hidden. First person to email me with the second gets a handwritten drawing in the mail! My money is on Vicky). Heard one of my favorite lines: “what percentage of things exploding do you think have been anticipated?" Reminds me of another saying I used to love as a kid: “eat right. excercise. die anyway” I’m becoming fatalistic. Or realistic. Or serene. Probably not. But I’m trying. The sheer reality of the situation is this: we are trying to change lives and systems that have been in place since time immemorial, and change like that takes lifetimes. It is a bit humbling to be put into a situation in which we are able to control so little, and expect to move the ocean so very far. So what do we do? Whatever we can, I guess. Stay tuned.
My little brother here drives me batty, and scares me a little, because he loves my things. Loves them. Loves to play with them, use them, maybe pee on them and claim ownership (not the last. yet). It borders on the obsessive, and it absolutely crosses over into the annoying, and I guess the real story here is that most of the people here like me for me, or at least like me because I’m different and funny. But sometimes it becomes about what I can do for them. Or what I can give them. Or sometimes, what they can use me for. And those moments are completely understandable. They are also completely excruciating. So I want to tell my little brother: “you need to not like vitu (things) so much.” Then I realize...easy to say when you’re the guy with all the vitu.
So the last part of this blog post is the text of the speech we are going to be giving on Wednesday. I also have it in Kiswahili, but not in digital form. I’ll post it later, i think. This speech was written by myself and a women named Rebeccah Steele. I’m rather fond of it, so if you don’t like it, save the constructive criticism until I return (you’ll have forgotten by then. Nimeshinda! (I have won! (I love parentheticals. This is a parenthetical to the 3rd degree. In the course of two years, how high can I set the bar? We shall see))). On Wednesday I will be sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I thought about applying to join the Peace Corps in August of 2008, during a particularly rocky time in my life. It is because of fortune, luck, and the love of a great many good friends and family members that I made it here. So this is the part where I say thank you. Thank you. Thanks for giving me a bed to sleep on, food to eat, music to listen to, encouragement, jokes, love, hugs, kisses, and wacks upside the head. If you came to the Beer Olympics, listened to me talk about Prospect Park, taught me how to harvest a turnip, or simply care about me, thank you. I’ve never done anything alone in my life, and I never will. When I’m living the good life alone in the village, I won’t be alone then either. I am where I want to be, and I am doing what I’ve always wanted to do. Thank you all. I love you, and I miss you. I hope you like the speech.
Unajua utokako, hujui uendako. (You know where you are from, you don’t know where you are going)
It all started with an idea and a click of a mouse. We individually decided it was time. Time to serve, grow, and learn. Individually we labored to apply and get through the grueling process to become a candidate. Individually we said goodbye to our families, our friends, and our lives. Individually we boarded planes bound for the unknown. In Philadelphia we began a joint experience, united by a common purpose, and a common trepidation. Internally, we were all shagalabagala (chaos). We had no idea how quickly we were going to get “comfortable” with each other. Our first test of overcoming obstacles was getting through John F. Kennedy airport in New York City. 40 passports...40 passengers packed for a two year adventure. We were dropped off and had to figure it out on our own. With a few small hickups we proudly became a team and boarded our plane.
We flew off into the sky, watching America fade away below us. Our flight was long, the seats were short, and the food was cold, but we will never forget the moment our new friends, our new family members, awoke us, and pointed to the sandy shores below. We had literally crossed over into Africa. An idea that began a continent away was now a reality in Tanzania.
As we landed in Dar the air smelled of fire and felt sticky to our skin. We had finally arrived at our new home.
Nine weeks ago our clothes were clean and pressed; we spoke no Kiswahili, we had yet to taste ugali. We were herded quickly to Msimbazi Center, minds clouded and eyes heavy with sleep deprivation. As the night blurred past, we were hit with our first dose of culture and medication. As the light of day came upon us, our new reality set in. We had to endure hours of information overload, shots, and jet lag, but we were alive and well.
After that first week, we were integrated, we were ready. Little did we know. We had, thus far, only seen one kind of Tanzania, and it was not so different from America. The words might be different, but the cars, the goods, the life, that was similar. We were completely oblivious to what was coming. Nothing would have prepared us for that first night. We were left that afternoon with our bags, a smile, and a “hujambo, sijambo” (You good? I’m good). Nothing else. We were without language, friends, the comforts of home, the simple habits that we had spent a lifetime learning. We were new faces, they were strangers; smiling, but speaking in a foreign tongue and expecting replies. Awkward silence (pause for awkward silence). We were alone that night, alone, and overwhelmed.
Over the next few weeks, we began to grow and learn, even in ways we did not realize. There were fewer Americans, and we all knew that very soon today would come, and tomorrow there will be no more Wazungu (white people). Those first few days we did not want to leave the classroom. What good students we were. But truthfully, we were scared to go home. For home was filled with strangers and strange words and stranger food. It was a perfect trap, because we had been put into a situation where we needed to change to survive. And we did this to ourselves. But then a funny thing happened. With each faux pas: broken beds, buibui bites, phones in the choo, malaria and missed transportation, there were lessons. Haba na haba hujaza kibaba (little by little fills the container). We laughed at ourselves as others laughed at us, and our mamas taught us how to cook, our bibis taught us how to speak, our babas drew us maps and made us flashcards. Our little kakas and dadas taught us how to play. We were embraced as brothers and sisters, and showered with generosity. Before we knew it, the strangers had become friends, and then the friends became family. The weeks whistled by us as we learned how to live, work, and play in this beautiful country. We built permagardens with primary students, held community meetings with the villagers, and grew together as a team. And now, before any of us can believe it, our training is over. For the second time in nine weeks we have left our homes, to travel to a place we have only seen on a map.
Two years from today, a funny thing will have happened. That place on a map will have become home. The strangers we will meet tomorrow will become friends, then family. And we will be leaving the toughest job we ever loved. We will leave behind gardens and nurseries, clinics and health clubs, bee hives and vaccination days. But we will be leaving behind far more than that. We will be leaving friends. Because more than a list of projects completed, marks on a ledger, money spent or money earned, our goal is the learning and growth that happens when two cultures come together. We have a tremendous opportunity to live, as ambassadors of the United States of America, with the people of Tanzania. We have some things we want to teach them, yes. Things that will hopefully improve the quality of their lives. But we have so much more we want to learn, and so many relationships we cannot wait to form.
Some of us may fall in love forever, with this place, with these people, with this life. Some of us may never leave. But leave or stay, we will forever be citizens of two nations, members of two cultures.
So today, we stand here, ready, once again, to go forward into great uncertainty. It will be hard. It will hurt. We may cry. But we will also learn, and we will teach. And hopefully we will dance and sing along the way. We are where we always wanted to be, and we are doing what we always wanted to do. And for that we are thankful. The people of Tanzania have already shown us more generosity than we could have imagined, and we are ready to repay it, little by little.
There is an Irish tale of two lads who encountered, in their travels, a high wall, higher than they believed they could climb. The two lads looked at each other, took off their packs, and threw them over the wall. Now they had no choice but to follow. Today we throw our packs over the wall. We will see you all on the other side. Kawia, tufike. (Linger, you’ll get there)
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Therein Lies the Shida
Buckle up for this one folks...I had too much time on my hands to scribe an email with :) Sorry. Not supposed to end sentences with prepositions, or smiley faces. Properly chastened, I endelea (continue).
For starters, shida means problem. We have all become big big fans of mixing Kiswahili and English to create Swenglish. Such sayings include: pumzika time (nap time or rest time), fua the nguo (wash the clothes), and Houston, we have a shida (the aforementioned problem word).
Writing this post from a mountain village called Malindi, near the city of Lushoto. The drive up these incredible mountains was undertaken by myself and Rebecca Steele (real name) on a vehicle called a Kosta. It’s about a 10:30pm on the Doomsday Clock of Tanzanian Transportation (midnight being the daladalas). Vehicle is actually quite sound, and the driver should go pro. We are going over one and a half-lane roads with 500 foot drops to our left, which, by the way, is the side we're driving on! Twice, when passing other speeding buses on hairpin turns, feeling like we were about to do our best Buddy Holly impersonation, she and I were cackling. For real, positively giggling. Why? Because when there’s nothing you can do to determine if you live or die...might as well laugh.
Was worth it though. Always is. I've never seen views like this in my entire life. I'm surrounded by steep mountain peaks, all covered in steppe farms. It's like being in an Incan paradise. Quite a place. Staying with Dave and Wendy Banks, an incredible couple one week away from leaving Tanzania after two years here. They’ve been married 48 years, and in the last two they've brought a library to the secondary school and electricity to the dispensary. They've also served Rebeccah and I hot dogs, beef stew, and chocolate cake. You can live the good life in TZ, and they are doing it. Amazing people.
Today I went with them to my first Tanzanian church service. Lasted a cool two hours and forty-five minutes. I'm told the record was a five hour plus confirmation ceremony. All joking aside, it was a wonderful ceremony, punctuated by Wendy and Dave saying goodbye to the congregation. I couldn't help thinking, “one day, sooner than I realize, that'll be me.” Its moments like that where I wish I'd just gone ahead and had the Serenity Prayer tattooed on both hands. The service was mostly made so long by the rockin’ choir, who combined gospel-style music with African drumming and who have one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. The service was exactly the same as an American Roman Catholic service, and when I shook hands with the neighboring parishioners during the “peace be with you” part, I had another one of those “we're not so different” moments.
Another one of those: went to a wedding a week or so back. Walked over carrying a sleepy two-year old on my shoulder, Mama had the baby. Spent a lot of the wedding dancing casually and off-rhythm, but in my defense, that was how to fit in. They have longer attention spans here; most songs at the wedding ran in the 25-minute range! I had a lot of fun getting low with old bibis (grandmothers), but it got a bit awkward when the 14-year olds were getting frisky. Had to shield myself with one of my child entourage (I think of them as my unholy army and pay them in candy. No joke), and make a quick getaway. Of course, I ran straight into a lovely man who smelled like a barrel of mangoes that was starting to turn. He was extremely happy to shake my hand, so happy, in fact, that he didn't let go for five minutes. Turns out he's the uncle of the bride, and he'd been hittin the still for a few hours. He was lovingly escorted elsewhere by some friends, long after the point where I had gotten a contact buzz. At this point Mama and I retrieved the little ones from her mother’s house, and called it a night. That's right folks: at Tanzanian weddings you drop the little ones off at your mom's and meet crazy drunk uncles. Say it with me now: "we're not so different".
Got my site assignment this week. My village is called Idetelo, it is in the Iringa Region, close to the town of Mafinga. I'm told it's pretty darn cold for Tanzania, that they have great timber, huge tea plantations, and that apparently there's really amazing horse riding (that's right lady love. I said horses). As odd as it may seem, since I moved out of Paupack to go to NYU in August of ’03, I have not lived anywhere for more than 11 months (I blame the bedbugs). This will be my longest stay in one residence since high school. So I should decorate, is what I'm saying.
Lacking a transition here, so this is the shout-out part of the email! Stacey, the couple I'm staying with is going to Spain before they return to America. Steered them towards Attic and La Sagrada Familia. Am jonesin for sangria now too. Connor and Samantha, I hope you’re staying up unreasonably late on summer vacay. Do me a favor, shoot some illegal fireworks off on someone else’s property. I’m feeling old lately. Vick, I’m getting really excited by the prospect of coming home and meeting Miss (better not get married without me!) Waldron’s class. Dad, it turns out that lots of Tanzanian vijiji (villages) are beginning to submit 10-year land-use plans. Thought of you the whole time during that session. Also, my village’s 3 main listed needs were: better animal husbandry (I may be starting bee-keeping!), poor nutrition (gotta learn how to cook something other than chicken parm), and deforestation! Might start a little zungumzo (conversation) with Peter Pinchot one of these days via email. Mama, I am missing your cooking like the deserts miss the rain (I'm also missing the art of dramatic overstatement and the joys of sarcastic understatement. All I can do in Kiswahili is state). Kels, the hat has become a full nusu (half) of my personality here. It may never come off. Ever.
.....Ever.
Speaking of seamless transitions (note the seamless transition): I am directing our swearing-in ceremony. I wanted the official swearing-in to be each of us jumping off the roof of a small domicile into a swimming pool (though any standing water would do), when the Peace Corps Director calls our names. I've got backup plans though. One of the volunteers has bagpipes. Re-read. Bagpipes.
I've never appreciated music this much in my entire life . Since my last email I've really gotten my mp3 player up and rolling, and it's amazing. I always listened to music at home, doing anything and everything: vacuuming, driving, doing the dishes, reading, you name it. But here...the gift of music is so much by itself. It's such a grin-inducing thrill to pick an old friend off the rack, wipe the dust off the cover, set the needle to the groove (metaphorically), and lie down to listen. Music takes me farther now than it ever took me before Tanzania. Though that might be because I've never had to go so far to get back home.
Couple o’ the big hits of my own private Tanzania: “Shine a Light”, “Shelter from the Storm”, anything off of Incubus’ Morning View, “Blackbird”, and Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah”. Those are the ones that take me the full 7,000 miles. Please, please, please, keep track of any new bitchin’ tunes. I want to hear everything great I've missed. That goes for movies, books, and amusing anecdotes.
Goin off music, there's this Ian Hunter tune called “When the World was Round”. It basically sings the virtues of the older, analog world. Reminds me of Thomas Friedman's book, “The World is Flat” (which for the record, I have not read, I'm just familiar with his op-eds and his general viewpoints, so take this with a grain of salt). And I wonder a little bit about what our two different societies have to offer. In America, we have this wonderful notion about leaving our children a better world than the one we inherited. Which I think is the right idea, if applied to everything (consumption, the environment, health) worldwide. But if we actually mean just leaving our personal children a better life...than it just means that this generation there’s a new group of immigrants washing the dishes. A society that is trying to scrape the sky still needs a foundation of labor, right?
Love, Lots of Love,
Dan
P.S. Since writing my last post I hiked a steep freaking mountain, followed by 5 screaming children. Great hike. Also cooked beef fajitas and guacamole, learned gin rummy, and saw an agricultural canal system that produces some of the best growing conditions I've ever seen. Greg, if you're reading, you would love this place. Rode back down the mountain in the daladala, praying for a sweet deliverance that never came in a 12-seat van holding 26 people. Off to Dar tomorrow to open a bank account, then back to training to wrap up. It's getting real.
For starters, shida means problem. We have all become big big fans of mixing Kiswahili and English to create Swenglish. Such sayings include: pumzika time (nap time or rest time), fua the nguo (wash the clothes), and Houston, we have a shida (the aforementioned problem word).
Writing this post from a mountain village called Malindi, near the city of Lushoto. The drive up these incredible mountains was undertaken by myself and Rebecca Steele (real name) on a vehicle called a Kosta. It’s about a 10:30pm on the Doomsday Clock of Tanzanian Transportation (midnight being the daladalas). Vehicle is actually quite sound, and the driver should go pro. We are going over one and a half-lane roads with 500 foot drops to our left, which, by the way, is the side we're driving on! Twice, when passing other speeding buses on hairpin turns, feeling like we were about to do our best Buddy Holly impersonation, she and I were cackling. For real, positively giggling. Why? Because when there’s nothing you can do to determine if you live or die...might as well laugh.
Was worth it though. Always is. I've never seen views like this in my entire life. I'm surrounded by steep mountain peaks, all covered in steppe farms. It's like being in an Incan paradise. Quite a place. Staying with Dave and Wendy Banks, an incredible couple one week away from leaving Tanzania after two years here. They’ve been married 48 years, and in the last two they've brought a library to the secondary school and electricity to the dispensary. They've also served Rebeccah and I hot dogs, beef stew, and chocolate cake. You can live the good life in TZ, and they are doing it. Amazing people.
Today I went with them to my first Tanzanian church service. Lasted a cool two hours and forty-five minutes. I'm told the record was a five hour plus confirmation ceremony. All joking aside, it was a wonderful ceremony, punctuated by Wendy and Dave saying goodbye to the congregation. I couldn't help thinking, “one day, sooner than I realize, that'll be me.” Its moments like that where I wish I'd just gone ahead and had the Serenity Prayer tattooed on both hands. The service was mostly made so long by the rockin’ choir, who combined gospel-style music with African drumming and who have one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. The service was exactly the same as an American Roman Catholic service, and when I shook hands with the neighboring parishioners during the “peace be with you” part, I had another one of those “we're not so different” moments.
Another one of those: went to a wedding a week or so back. Walked over carrying a sleepy two-year old on my shoulder, Mama had the baby. Spent a lot of the wedding dancing casually and off-rhythm, but in my defense, that was how to fit in. They have longer attention spans here; most songs at the wedding ran in the 25-minute range! I had a lot of fun getting low with old bibis (grandmothers), but it got a bit awkward when the 14-year olds were getting frisky. Had to shield myself with one of my child entourage (I think of them as my unholy army and pay them in candy. No joke), and make a quick getaway. Of course, I ran straight into a lovely man who smelled like a barrel of mangoes that was starting to turn. He was extremely happy to shake my hand, so happy, in fact, that he didn't let go for five minutes. Turns out he's the uncle of the bride, and he'd been hittin the still for a few hours. He was lovingly escorted elsewhere by some friends, long after the point where I had gotten a contact buzz. At this point Mama and I retrieved the little ones from her mother’s house, and called it a night. That's right folks: at Tanzanian weddings you drop the little ones off at your mom's and meet crazy drunk uncles. Say it with me now: "we're not so different".
Got my site assignment this week. My village is called Idetelo, it is in the Iringa Region, close to the town of Mafinga. I'm told it's pretty darn cold for Tanzania, that they have great timber, huge tea plantations, and that apparently there's really amazing horse riding (that's right lady love. I said horses). As odd as it may seem, since I moved out of Paupack to go to NYU in August of ’03, I have not lived anywhere for more than 11 months (I blame the bedbugs). This will be my longest stay in one residence since high school. So I should decorate, is what I'm saying.
Lacking a transition here, so this is the shout-out part of the email! Stacey, the couple I'm staying with is going to Spain before they return to America. Steered them towards Attic and La Sagrada Familia. Am jonesin for sangria now too. Connor and Samantha, I hope you’re staying up unreasonably late on summer vacay. Do me a favor, shoot some illegal fireworks off on someone else’s property. I’m feeling old lately. Vick, I’m getting really excited by the prospect of coming home and meeting Miss (better not get married without me!) Waldron’s class. Dad, it turns out that lots of Tanzanian vijiji (villages) are beginning to submit 10-year land-use plans. Thought of you the whole time during that session. Also, my village’s 3 main listed needs were: better animal husbandry (I may be starting bee-keeping!), poor nutrition (gotta learn how to cook something other than chicken parm), and deforestation! Might start a little zungumzo (conversation) with Peter Pinchot one of these days via email. Mama, I am missing your cooking like the deserts miss the rain (I'm also missing the art of dramatic overstatement and the joys of sarcastic understatement. All I can do in Kiswahili is state). Kels, the hat has become a full nusu (half) of my personality here. It may never come off. Ever.
.....Ever.
Speaking of seamless transitions (note the seamless transition): I am directing our swearing-in ceremony. I wanted the official swearing-in to be each of us jumping off the roof of a small domicile into a swimming pool (though any standing water would do), when the Peace Corps Director calls our names. I've got backup plans though. One of the volunteers has bagpipes. Re-read. Bagpipes.
I've never appreciated music this much in my entire life . Since my last email I've really gotten my mp3 player up and rolling, and it's amazing. I always listened to music at home, doing anything and everything: vacuuming, driving, doing the dishes, reading, you name it. But here...the gift of music is so much by itself. It's such a grin-inducing thrill to pick an old friend off the rack, wipe the dust off the cover, set the needle to the groove (metaphorically), and lie down to listen. Music takes me farther now than it ever took me before Tanzania. Though that might be because I've never had to go so far to get back home.
Couple o’ the big hits of my own private Tanzania: “Shine a Light”, “Shelter from the Storm”, anything off of Incubus’ Morning View, “Blackbird”, and Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah”. Those are the ones that take me the full 7,000 miles. Please, please, please, keep track of any new bitchin’ tunes. I want to hear everything great I've missed. That goes for movies, books, and amusing anecdotes.
Goin off music, there's this Ian Hunter tune called “When the World was Round”. It basically sings the virtues of the older, analog world. Reminds me of Thomas Friedman's book, “The World is Flat” (which for the record, I have not read, I'm just familiar with his op-eds and his general viewpoints, so take this with a grain of salt). And I wonder a little bit about what our two different societies have to offer. In America, we have this wonderful notion about leaving our children a better world than the one we inherited. Which I think is the right idea, if applied to everything (consumption, the environment, health) worldwide. But if we actually mean just leaving our personal children a better life...than it just means that this generation there’s a new group of immigrants washing the dishes. A society that is trying to scrape the sky still needs a foundation of labor, right?
Love, Lots of Love,
Dan
P.S. Since writing my last post I hiked a steep freaking mountain, followed by 5 screaming children. Great hike. Also cooked beef fajitas and guacamole, learned gin rummy, and saw an agricultural canal system that produces some of the best growing conditions I've ever seen. Greg, if you're reading, you would love this place. Rode back down the mountain in the daladala, praying for a sweet deliverance that never came in a 12-seat van holding 26 people. Off to Dar tomorrow to open a bank account, then back to training to wrap up. It's getting real.
A Place Called Choo
Just so we're clear, choo is pronounced with Swahili phonetics (rhymes with Joe). This is where we do our business here in Africa. It's a hole in the floor. I am one of the luckiest of my good friends; no creatures have flown out of the hole at me.
I am writing this email from a resort at Pangani, which is possibly the most beautiful place I've ever seen in my life, and where I may retire to when I finish the Peace Corps and spend all my days bicycling coconuts to town (kidding, mostly). We got here last night, and all ran into the bathwater-warm Indian Ocean cackling and giggling like mad, feeling like we stole something shiny and got away with it. Other than a fairly nasty spider bite on one of my friend's hands, it has been the most blissful vacation I can imagine, and we got here 10 hours ago. I cannot think of a time in my life when I've needed a vacation more.
Why, you ask? Here's the heavy philosophy: I spent some time wondering why I couldn't explain anything to Mom and Dad clearly. What is it about this experience that was so damn unsettling, not just to me, but to all of us, for the first few days? Here's my thought: that first night, when a Peace Corps car drops you off at a house and drives off and you are alone with a new family, speaking a language you don't understand, eating with your hands, and shitting in a hole, you are in a perfect trap. There are two choices, and you are instantly aware of both: I can either change and adapt to this, and become a little different person, and that will hurt, maybe a lot OR I can not do that, go home, and disappoint myself forever. And the most perfect part of this trap: I made it myself. I never seriously thought of going home those first couple days...but those are the two options: adapt or run away. Both are gonna hurt. So that, I think, is what was so crazy about those first few days. Heavy thinking, done.
So here we are, four weeks into the crazy journey. As hard as it is for me to believe, I only have about four more weeks of training, and then it's time to be a big boy, and go I know not where. I speak Kiswahili! Not particularly beautifully, and I can't understand a native speaker who isn't speaking slowly, but I can get my point across, and most days, I'm getting better. We all say "Hamna Shida" (literally "there are no problem") so much it reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where George's dad keeps shouting "Serenity now!". Most mornings I'm running five miles or so and watching the sun come up. I can't sleep in past 6:30 if you paid me at this point, though that is mostly the fault of the roosters (damn cocks, always get you). I stay in a house that at the moment, I believe, is sleeping 10 people. I have a very nice room, which thank god does not have a ceiling, just a roof. Thank god why? Because twice in the last 3 days I locked myself out of my room and had to climb spider-style up and over the wall to get my key. I climb a lot here, my friends laugh at me. It's also an incredibly rare day when I don't scrape, cut, or bruise myself. My friends laugh at that too. We play hard, here in Africa.
I have fully embraced the African conception of bribery, and use candy as currency to get the children to help us with stuff. I also dole it out as medicine on rough days. Life, on the whole, is pretty good. My major issues arise on the days I'm too tired (there are lots of those) to argue with my mother about the amount of food I'm gonna eat. She keeps saying "Ongeza" (add!) and I keep saying "Hapana" (no). And we go on like this, and I insist mpenzi wangu (my girlfriend) won't love me if I become mnene (fat), and we laugh and laugh and then she scoops rice and beans onto my plate, and on my weak days I just resign myself and eat it. This came to a head two nights ago, when after enough starchy foods to feed a horse, I lay awake with heartburn and gas until 2 in the morning, when, like a 13-year old girl from a bad 90's health video, I staggered out behind the choo and...purged. I assure you, it was mostly hysterical. I kept thinking about the awful "Saved by the Bell" episode when Jessie starts singing "I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so........scared!"
Life is different here. Fundamentally different. You work here to exist. When you don't need to work...you don't. People walk slowly here. There will always be more time. The concept of saving money isn't real, and the concept of a vacation would be absurd. Life is cyclical, and it goes on much as it has gone on here for time immemorial. How long that will last...I wonder. These people love Shakira, and television, and Barack Obama. I'm not sure they realize all the stuff that goes with it. I'm worried that might hurt a bit, too.
So, a shout out. Damon, I think of you whenever I see a child pushing a hoop with a stick (for real, they're everywhere). Kelsey, the flying cow is my only decoration, it and you are a big hit here. Vick, the photo album was the only way I made it through the first night, they love love love pictures of me as a baby, and I love looking at it. Mom and Dad, the amount of things I use and appreciate and am happy I brought every day is huge. I think of "The Things They Carried" a lot. Nothing beats getting ready for the day and putting on a hat, boots, a bandana, and a knife. Oh, I wielded a machete!!! Niedy, I spent idle minutes daydreaming about your wedding. Brittany and Rocco, I was holding a baby the other day and singing songs from Crazy About You. Made me glad. Kucz, you gotta run in Africa. I'm seriously considering running a marathon in February on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Jamie, you could out-bicycle these Africans any day. And Will, we were digging a garden the other day and "Cellar Door" came up on my ipod. Smile time.
I sing a lot of the time here, whatever I can remember. Lots of Christmas carols, and a bunch of sea shanties and Rolling Stones tunes. I love you all, I miss you all, and good god, it is beautiful to see your pictures.
Siku Njema (Good Day) kutoka Afrika (from Africa)
Bwana Waldron
I am writing this email from a resort at Pangani, which is possibly the most beautiful place I've ever seen in my life, and where I may retire to when I finish the Peace Corps and spend all my days bicycling coconuts to town (kidding, mostly). We got here last night, and all ran into the bathwater-warm Indian Ocean cackling and giggling like mad, feeling like we stole something shiny and got away with it. Other than a fairly nasty spider bite on one of my friend's hands, it has been the most blissful vacation I can imagine, and we got here 10 hours ago. I cannot think of a time in my life when I've needed a vacation more.
Why, you ask? Here's the heavy philosophy: I spent some time wondering why I couldn't explain anything to Mom and Dad clearly. What is it about this experience that was so damn unsettling, not just to me, but to all of us, for the first few days? Here's my thought: that first night, when a Peace Corps car drops you off at a house and drives off and you are alone with a new family, speaking a language you don't understand, eating with your hands, and shitting in a hole, you are in a perfect trap. There are two choices, and you are instantly aware of both: I can either change and adapt to this, and become a little different person, and that will hurt, maybe a lot OR I can not do that, go home, and disappoint myself forever. And the most perfect part of this trap: I made it myself. I never seriously thought of going home those first couple days...but those are the two options: adapt or run away. Both are gonna hurt. So that, I think, is what was so crazy about those first few days. Heavy thinking, done.
So here we are, four weeks into the crazy journey. As hard as it is for me to believe, I only have about four more weeks of training, and then it's time to be a big boy, and go I know not where. I speak Kiswahili! Not particularly beautifully, and I can't understand a native speaker who isn't speaking slowly, but I can get my point across, and most days, I'm getting better. We all say "Hamna Shida" (literally "there are no problem") so much it reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where George's dad keeps shouting "Serenity now!". Most mornings I'm running five miles or so and watching the sun come up. I can't sleep in past 6:30 if you paid me at this point, though that is mostly the fault of the roosters (damn cocks, always get you). I stay in a house that at the moment, I believe, is sleeping 10 people. I have a very nice room, which thank god does not have a ceiling, just a roof. Thank god why? Because twice in the last 3 days I locked myself out of my room and had to climb spider-style up and over the wall to get my key. I climb a lot here, my friends laugh at me. It's also an incredibly rare day when I don't scrape, cut, or bruise myself. My friends laugh at that too. We play hard, here in Africa.
I have fully embraced the African conception of bribery, and use candy as currency to get the children to help us with stuff. I also dole it out as medicine on rough days. Life, on the whole, is pretty good. My major issues arise on the days I'm too tired (there are lots of those) to argue with my mother about the amount of food I'm gonna eat. She keeps saying "Ongeza" (add!) and I keep saying "Hapana" (no). And we go on like this, and I insist mpenzi wangu (my girlfriend) won't love me if I become mnene (fat), and we laugh and laugh and then she scoops rice and beans onto my plate, and on my weak days I just resign myself and eat it. This came to a head two nights ago, when after enough starchy foods to feed a horse, I lay awake with heartburn and gas until 2 in the morning, when, like a 13-year old girl from a bad 90's health video, I staggered out behind the choo and...purged. I assure you, it was mostly hysterical. I kept thinking about the awful "Saved by the Bell" episode when Jessie starts singing "I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so........scared!"
Life is different here. Fundamentally different. You work here to exist. When you don't need to work...you don't. People walk slowly here. There will always be more time. The concept of saving money isn't real, and the concept of a vacation would be absurd. Life is cyclical, and it goes on much as it has gone on here for time immemorial. How long that will last...I wonder. These people love Shakira, and television, and Barack Obama. I'm not sure they realize all the stuff that goes with it. I'm worried that might hurt a bit, too.
So, a shout out. Damon, I think of you whenever I see a child pushing a hoop with a stick (for real, they're everywhere). Kelsey, the flying cow is my only decoration, it and you are a big hit here. Vick, the photo album was the only way I made it through the first night, they love love love pictures of me as a baby, and I love looking at it. Mom and Dad, the amount of things I use and appreciate and am happy I brought every day is huge. I think of "The Things They Carried" a lot. Nothing beats getting ready for the day and putting on a hat, boots, a bandana, and a knife. Oh, I wielded a machete!!! Niedy, I spent idle minutes daydreaming about your wedding. Brittany and Rocco, I was holding a baby the other day and singing songs from Crazy About You. Made me glad. Kucz, you gotta run in Africa. I'm seriously considering running a marathon in February on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Jamie, you could out-bicycle these Africans any day. And Will, we were digging a garden the other day and "Cellar Door" came up on my ipod. Smile time.
I sing a lot of the time here, whatever I can remember. Lots of Christmas carols, and a bunch of sea shanties and Rolling Stones tunes. I love you all, I miss you all, and good god, it is beautiful to see your pictures.
Siku Njema (Good Day) kutoka Afrika (from Africa)
Bwana Waldron
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