Would like to begin today’s post with a few tales about my friend Razzaq. Razzaq is three. When you ask Razzaq how old he is, he says “Tatu!” This means three. Very good Razzaq. When you ask Razzaq what grade he is in, he answers, “Tatu!” Not quite accurate. When you ask Razzaq how many kilos he weighs, he says, “Tatu!”. Awww...you’re cute.
And cute he is. It’s as if his father, my principal counterpart, designed a child purposely to amuse me. He is short...and funny. It is as if his cheeks have grown fully, and the rest of his body is moving at normal pace. He has the chubbiest cheeks I have ever seen on a child. They seem to be squeezing his eyes in, and his voice also sounds like it is being squeezed, like he is always talking around a muffin he hasn’t finished eating. He also waddles when he walks, and occasionally sports a three piece black suit…which he wears to the farm, and while playing in the dirt (more on this later). I find him adorable. One day when he was pretending to drive the stool he was sitting on, making all sorts of car noises, I asked him if the stool he was driving had gears. “LAZIMA ina gia!”, says our budding Jimmy Johnson (definitely the first and probably only NASCAR reference this blog will see). By which he meant, “OF COURSE it has gears!”.
He is also one of the biggest fans of my favorite greeting with small Tanzanian children: the exploding fist bump. I say, “Nipe tano!” (give me five), and hold out my fist. They give me a bump, and then we do the explode and say “ripua!” (explode). Some of the kids like it, most don’t get it, but every time I see chubby-cheeked Razzaq he walks up to me with a fist and says in his squeezed little voice, “Nipe tano!!!”. Makes me laugh every single time.
Last Razzaq story. When my partner and I talk at his house, we always do so in his living room, with a door that leads right out to his courtyard. The courtyard is also where the kukus (chickens) spend their time. Inside is the usual source of food, so the kukus occasionally try to enter. This is no good, as they might lay eggs, or other organic material, anywhere inside the house. So during our conversations about village development and cross-culture, we also spend lots of time shooing kukus outside. One day Razzaq was waddling around without purpose, so my counterpart gives him a purpose. He finds a stool (the aforementioned car with gears) and a stick. He sits Razzaq in the doorway and gives him the stick. We now have a mlinzi (guard). Attaboy Razzaq.
The rains have been getting interesting these days. Went a couple days without them last week. Then came Sunday. Am sitting in my house after church, just reading. It’s felt real quiet for a few hours, like it does before a storm. The clouds, which usually roll in slowly, one by one, are just a towering mass of gray. It begins to rain, then rain heavily. And then, for the first time, it begins to hail. I have a metal roof. This makes a drizzle sound like a shower, a shower sound like a hail storm, and a hail storm...it’s hard to describe. The storm lasted about 20 minutes. It felt like forever. The pea-sized hail hammered my roof, and it wasn’t just that I couldn’t hear. It was that the sound became so deafening it was like white noise in my head. I remember wondering if this is what Noriega felt like DOUBLE CHECK NORIEGA. It was a novelty for a couple minutes, and then it started to hurt. So this is how I ended up like a five year-old in the middle of a storm, with my head buried under the pillow, waiting for the storm to pass.
Speaking of unusual pain. Nothing here is quite as tied to my identity as a rough-and-ready Peace Corps Volunteer as my panga (machete). I love it. It’s coming back with me. So when my neighbor told me I had to build trellises for my tomatoes, I was thrilled. A chance to use the machete without chasing mice! Still have not caught one yet, got a lot of work to do to catch up with Kelsey (a naturally gifted rat-catcher). So I pull out a few bamboo poles from my fence and start hacking. It’s awesome! And then it’s not! Because I slip, and instead of delivering the final blow to a piece of muhanzi (bamboo), I deliver a rather nice blow to my wrist, leaving a nice little gash. Which is how I ended up with my very first, and very favorite, machete wound. Living the dream people. The. Dream.
To pick up my earlier point about clothes. Razzaq wearing a full suit is not all that unusual. I am never, and I mean never, the best dressed person in my village. Every day there are Tanzanian men in my village with immaculately pressed shirts and slacks with creases so sharp they don’t need machetes (but they still use them, because machetes ongeza (increase) manhood). These are not rich people, but the cultural ideal is to look your best at all times. I occasionally feel self conscious; maybe I’m underdressed (I never leave the house without a button-down shirt, but occasionally early morning visitors get a glimpse of my Dark Side of the Moon pajama pants. Eat your heart out)? Here is where it gets really fun. These beautiful dress slacks and sharp dress shirts…they wear them everywhere. Particularly to the farm. Nothing preps you for the first time you are digging up potatoes with a man who looks ready to address a jury. It’s a very different cultural thing, and I don’t completely understand it. But for Tanzanians, appearances are incredibly important, even occasionally to the detriment of the task at hand. I cannot count the number of times I have had to sign guest books. Every school, office, hospital, and hostel has one. I am a permanent guest. Does the thing matter? Not really. But its presence makes things official…and that is what matters. My cow group does not have an office, any money, any cow sheds, or any feed (though we are working on all those things). But dammit, we’ve got a sign in book. All is well.
Was out for a walk in the middle of the night to send some text messages (I only get service to send messages if I walk a few hundred feet uphill. The full moon is out, and Wow it is bright. I am looking around, and I am literally seeing colors of plants and houses in the middle of the night. It’s like the negative of the world I’m used to, and it’s unbelievably beautiful, like some mischievous god spray-painted the village with silver. It is so bright, in fact, that I have an idea. I reach into my pocket and pull out my notebook. Sure enough, I’m right. Which is how, twenty minutes later, our humble narrator finds himself outside on his folding chair, reading “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat”, completely by moonlight. Next time I’ll find something slightly more poetic, but even reading about clinical neurology, I was mbinguni (in heaven). No flashlight needed. Not tonight.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Ball Drops
Happy New Year!!! 2010, crazy year. 2011, willing to put some money down, gonna be crazier. I base this on the assumption that 2011, for me anyway, is the year of the Wildebeest. Africa, all year long, probably the only year of my life I’ll spend away from the US of A. Get to how I spent my New Year’s Eve in a bit, but for this particular blog post, especially since it’s going up at the same time as a rather sermon-like Christmas post, I thought I would stick to some little stories of the days and nights of Africa.
Some of you have heard this one, but it’s undeniably awesome...so bear with me. My neighbor and confidante comes to me one day and asks me if we can talk about a kitu cha siri (secret thing). I say, sawa (okay). So he tells me that he has been talking with another man, who wanted to know if I could help him out with the sale of a particular item. What item, inquires the volunteer? It appears that our unnamed villager has acquired some mercury. Mercury? Yes, mercury. How did this gentleman acquire this mercury. From a factory. Okay....we’ll go with that. Can I sell this mercury? Nope. Why not? Because I’ve lived here 2 months, and my training did not cover markets in rare materials, which may or may not be a bit hot. Ok, says my counterpart.
A month passes.
Once again, my counterpart throws a “Hodi” my way (sort of a verbal ‘knock knock’). I say come on in, the chai is fine. Have I figured out where to sell the mercury yet? Nope, haven’t knocked that item off the list yet. But you’ve asked? Sure. Why not. So my counterpart inquires as to whether or not I might be able to facilitate a transaction between our same enterprising villager and a as-yet-to-be-found buyer. A transaction regarding what item? The mercury? No no, though that would be nice. But lo, our mysterious purveyor of industrial chemicals has come across a new toy. What? Uranium. Uranium? Yeah...uranium. Where is said uranium? Like, do I need to put on my lead bib? Oh, it’s safe. Of course it’s safe. The village doesn’t have running water, but the uranium is in a controlled environment. And now I’m wondering...how long till I’m peddling homespun weapons of mass destruction? Do I have the power to get a country on the axis of evil? Could I myself get on the axis of evil? Fingers crossed.
New Year’s Day, I’m in church. Cuz I was raised right, god-fearin and church-goin. At the end of Mass (a cool two hours), we do the collection. Before the collection, the Katakista asks us all for a special, year-starting donation, for the purposes of adding rooms on to the church. So we pony up, we dig deep in the pockets. Tanzanians always announce the amount of contribution. So we have to count it. Whilst they count the money, we sing, we dance, and I notice, that in addition to the lock box of cash, someone has placed a paper bag...perhaps in lieu of a donation. And sure enough, when we read the totals, we have contributed: eighteen thousand shillings, half a debe of corn (about 10 liters), and a simbilisi. To answer the obvious question, simbilisi is a Kihehe word. It means guinea pig. At which point, appropriately, the bag begins to move...and I begin to wonder. Some days, the cat does drive me crazy. Maybe some Sunday morning your boy saves himself his usual five hundred shilling donation...and the Catholic Church gets a bona fide rat catcher. Just kidding. I hope.
Out running one day, notice a bunch of holes dug in the sand. What are these, I wonder? So on the way back, I realize that there are 10 holes, dug in two rows of five. They have a few rocks, or peach pits, in each hole. At which point I realize that I am looking at a game board. It’s a wonderful African parlor game called Mancala. And your boy just ran straight through the parlor. My manners, oh my manners.
The mbunge (basically our congressman) came into town. Fielded questions from anybody who wanted to ask them. Have heard a lot of bad stories about a lot of representatives, but everybody here seems to think he’s doing well, and he doesn’t make a habit of promising things beyond his reach. The only reason I mention the story is that one of the questions he fielded was from one of the village elders, who wanted to know what he could do about the price of sugar. In some ways, ridiculous. In some ways, a hell of a lot more relevant than the hoops we make our politicians jump through.
I have a bike! I’ve got a bike, you can ride it if you like, it’s got a basket, a bell that rings, and things that make it look good (Pink Floyd, Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Really, really weird album.) Bought it in Mafinga (note Fozzie Bear). Spent a decent amount of shillings on it. Also had it shoved into the back of a Kosta, came out looking like a Dali bike. Anywho, gave it to the fundi wa baiskeli (bike repair guy). He does pretty quick work, has it ready to ride around 10 the next morning. I’m sitting in his yard, watching him work. My counterpart tells me that he is a very famous fundi. I pay the famous fundi. I board the bike, head off to visit my nearest mzungu (whitey) neighbor, a delightful Wisconsonian named Kenzie. I get about a kilometer down the road, reach the bottom of a hill, and start to pedal for the first time. At which point one pedal comes off. I put it back on, try pedaling delicately. The pedal now comes apart like a banana unpeeling itself. Thanks, famous fundi. Haven’t yet learned the Kiswahili for refund. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t either.
Speaking of Mzungu. I hear it every day, normally shrieked by tiny children in a tone of voice that grates at the molars. It’s pronounced m-ZOOn-goo. And that is exactly what I am. I’m the zoo animal. Very high end. I’m a big white polar bear, with his own spiffy cave. And the cave is safe. But I get so little work done there. Listening to U2 the other day, ‘Breathe’. Great line in the song that goes, “every day I have to find the courage to walk out into the street.” And it’s...it’s actually legitimately hard. I’m a freak. A friendly one, who speaks the language. But I don’t belong. And some days that really sucks, to be stared at, to be different. On the other hand, in America, the very sight of me doesn’t induce shrieks of delight from random children. There are pluses, there are minuses. But every day I make a point to go for a walk, to see people, to have them see me. I call it showing the flag. Kuonyesha bandera.
For a few weeks, I would see flashes of light in the distance at night. Didn’t know what they were. Asked a guy in the street. He said, “sayansi” (science). Thanks. Didn’t believe that it was lightning. No thunder, really cold for heat lightning. But that’s what it is. And it comes in every night. It’s everywhere, ominous and silent. What is not silent is the nearby drummers. Most nights they start up around nine. Drums, somewhere in the distance. Children shrieking. Feels like a ritual. I’ve thought about going out one night and finding the drums. Just like I’ve thought about asking some of the science teachers to explain the cold lightning. But I haven’t. Because right now I have these beautiful mysteries. The drummers with no faces, the lightning with no voice. And maybe learning more doesn’t always make something better. There are so few mysteries left. I’m not ready to risk ruining mine.
People talk about this experience changing you. I get what they’re saying...but I don’t agree. It’s not like I’m changing. It feels more like I’m being distilled. Things seem to mean more, and I want to do more with them. It is almost like I’m getting closer to the center of me. Like I’m more Dan Waldron than I ever used to be. As my bald buddy put it, you start to feel like a round peg in a round hole. It’s taken a while, but it is a beautiful thing to feel at home in your own head, welcome in your own skin.
So New Year’s Eve. Went over to my neighbor’s house. He sparked up the generator, and we watched Tanzanian television for four hours. Clock hits midnight, we stand up and sing the Tanzanian national anthem. And it’s a nice moment. I head back to my house. It’s a beautiful night. I pull my folding chair out into the lawn. I spark up a cigar, I open a tiny bottle of Scotch. My lovely lady calls, and that’s wonderful. My family calls (the donators of said scotch and stogie), and it’s amazing. And last, my boy Kucz calls. Because the people I love are amazing. And Mom asks at some point, “I bet the stars are unbelievable, aren’t they?” And all I can say...is “yup”. Because beautiful doesn’t cut it, not tonight. Remembering that Incubus song, with the poem about the backlit canopy with holes punched in it. And I wish you were here. But what a beautiful night. Haven’t had much Scotch in a while. Which might explain why 2am finds your boy outside, dancing under the stars to “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”, performed by the Band, whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other, as stupid and happy as I ever hope to be, dancing the night away. It’s gonna be a good year.
Some of you have heard this one, but it’s undeniably awesome...so bear with me. My neighbor and confidante comes to me one day and asks me if we can talk about a kitu cha siri (secret thing). I say, sawa (okay). So he tells me that he has been talking with another man, who wanted to know if I could help him out with the sale of a particular item. What item, inquires the volunteer? It appears that our unnamed villager has acquired some mercury. Mercury? Yes, mercury. How did this gentleman acquire this mercury. From a factory. Okay....we’ll go with that. Can I sell this mercury? Nope. Why not? Because I’ve lived here 2 months, and my training did not cover markets in rare materials, which may or may not be a bit hot. Ok, says my counterpart.
A month passes.
Once again, my counterpart throws a “Hodi” my way (sort of a verbal ‘knock knock’). I say come on in, the chai is fine. Have I figured out where to sell the mercury yet? Nope, haven’t knocked that item off the list yet. But you’ve asked? Sure. Why not. So my counterpart inquires as to whether or not I might be able to facilitate a transaction between our same enterprising villager and a as-yet-to-be-found buyer. A transaction regarding what item? The mercury? No no, though that would be nice. But lo, our mysterious purveyor of industrial chemicals has come across a new toy. What? Uranium. Uranium? Yeah...uranium. Where is said uranium? Like, do I need to put on my lead bib? Oh, it’s safe. Of course it’s safe. The village doesn’t have running water, but the uranium is in a controlled environment. And now I’m wondering...how long till I’m peddling homespun weapons of mass destruction? Do I have the power to get a country on the axis of evil? Could I myself get on the axis of evil? Fingers crossed.
New Year’s Day, I’m in church. Cuz I was raised right, god-fearin and church-goin. At the end of Mass (a cool two hours), we do the collection. Before the collection, the Katakista asks us all for a special, year-starting donation, for the purposes of adding rooms on to the church. So we pony up, we dig deep in the pockets. Tanzanians always announce the amount of contribution. So we have to count it. Whilst they count the money, we sing, we dance, and I notice, that in addition to the lock box of cash, someone has placed a paper bag...perhaps in lieu of a donation. And sure enough, when we read the totals, we have contributed: eighteen thousand shillings, half a debe of corn (about 10 liters), and a simbilisi. To answer the obvious question, simbilisi is a Kihehe word. It means guinea pig. At which point, appropriately, the bag begins to move...and I begin to wonder. Some days, the cat does drive me crazy. Maybe some Sunday morning your boy saves himself his usual five hundred shilling donation...and the Catholic Church gets a bona fide rat catcher. Just kidding. I hope.
Out running one day, notice a bunch of holes dug in the sand. What are these, I wonder? So on the way back, I realize that there are 10 holes, dug in two rows of five. They have a few rocks, or peach pits, in each hole. At which point I realize that I am looking at a game board. It’s a wonderful African parlor game called Mancala. And your boy just ran straight through the parlor. My manners, oh my manners.
The mbunge (basically our congressman) came into town. Fielded questions from anybody who wanted to ask them. Have heard a lot of bad stories about a lot of representatives, but everybody here seems to think he’s doing well, and he doesn’t make a habit of promising things beyond his reach. The only reason I mention the story is that one of the questions he fielded was from one of the village elders, who wanted to know what he could do about the price of sugar. In some ways, ridiculous. In some ways, a hell of a lot more relevant than the hoops we make our politicians jump through.
I have a bike! I’ve got a bike, you can ride it if you like, it’s got a basket, a bell that rings, and things that make it look good (Pink Floyd, Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Really, really weird album.) Bought it in Mafinga (note Fozzie Bear). Spent a decent amount of shillings on it. Also had it shoved into the back of a Kosta, came out looking like a Dali bike. Anywho, gave it to the fundi wa baiskeli (bike repair guy). He does pretty quick work, has it ready to ride around 10 the next morning. I’m sitting in his yard, watching him work. My counterpart tells me that he is a very famous fundi. I pay the famous fundi. I board the bike, head off to visit my nearest mzungu (whitey) neighbor, a delightful Wisconsonian named Kenzie. I get about a kilometer down the road, reach the bottom of a hill, and start to pedal for the first time. At which point one pedal comes off. I put it back on, try pedaling delicately. The pedal now comes apart like a banana unpeeling itself. Thanks, famous fundi. Haven’t yet learned the Kiswahili for refund. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t either.
Speaking of Mzungu. I hear it every day, normally shrieked by tiny children in a tone of voice that grates at the molars. It’s pronounced m-ZOOn-goo. And that is exactly what I am. I’m the zoo animal. Very high end. I’m a big white polar bear, with his own spiffy cave. And the cave is safe. But I get so little work done there. Listening to U2 the other day, ‘Breathe’. Great line in the song that goes, “every day I have to find the courage to walk out into the street.” And it’s...it’s actually legitimately hard. I’m a freak. A friendly one, who speaks the language. But I don’t belong. And some days that really sucks, to be stared at, to be different. On the other hand, in America, the very sight of me doesn’t induce shrieks of delight from random children. There are pluses, there are minuses. But every day I make a point to go for a walk, to see people, to have them see me. I call it showing the flag. Kuonyesha bandera.
For a few weeks, I would see flashes of light in the distance at night. Didn’t know what they were. Asked a guy in the street. He said, “sayansi” (science). Thanks. Didn’t believe that it was lightning. No thunder, really cold for heat lightning. But that’s what it is. And it comes in every night. It’s everywhere, ominous and silent. What is not silent is the nearby drummers. Most nights they start up around nine. Drums, somewhere in the distance. Children shrieking. Feels like a ritual. I’ve thought about going out one night and finding the drums. Just like I’ve thought about asking some of the science teachers to explain the cold lightning. But I haven’t. Because right now I have these beautiful mysteries. The drummers with no faces, the lightning with no voice. And maybe learning more doesn’t always make something better. There are so few mysteries left. I’m not ready to risk ruining mine.
People talk about this experience changing you. I get what they’re saying...but I don’t agree. It’s not like I’m changing. It feels more like I’m being distilled. Things seem to mean more, and I want to do more with them. It is almost like I’m getting closer to the center of me. Like I’m more Dan Waldron than I ever used to be. As my bald buddy put it, you start to feel like a round peg in a round hole. It’s taken a while, but it is a beautiful thing to feel at home in your own head, welcome in your own skin.
So New Year’s Eve. Went over to my neighbor’s house. He sparked up the generator, and we watched Tanzanian television for four hours. Clock hits midnight, we stand up and sing the Tanzanian national anthem. And it’s a nice moment. I head back to my house. It’s a beautiful night. I pull my folding chair out into the lawn. I spark up a cigar, I open a tiny bottle of Scotch. My lovely lady calls, and that’s wonderful. My family calls (the donators of said scotch and stogie), and it’s amazing. And last, my boy Kucz calls. Because the people I love are amazing. And Mom asks at some point, “I bet the stars are unbelievable, aren’t they?” And all I can say...is “yup”. Because beautiful doesn’t cut it, not tonight. Remembering that Incubus song, with the poem about the backlit canopy with holes punched in it. And I wish you were here. But what a beautiful night. Haven’t had much Scotch in a while. Which might explain why 2am finds your boy outside, dancing under the stars to “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”, performed by the Band, whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other, as stupid and happy as I ever hope to be, dancing the night away. It’s gonna be a good year.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Yes Virginia...
i heard the bells on Christmas day, their old familiar carols play. and wild and sweet the words repeat, of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Merry Christmas from Africa, you joyful band of ne’er-do-elves. It rained for three hours yesterday, and before that it was about 95 degrees and dry, and after it was 75 and humid. Not quite Bing Crosby or Parson Brown type weather, but all in all, given my housing, I appreciate the temperatures.
Just finished my two week in-service-training, where I got to see all of my friends from the beginning of my service. Was really phenomenal, in that we all got to spend a lot of time doing a lot of different things, and relaxing in ways that we often aren’t capable of in our villages. On the down side, got back into my village yesterday, and the time I have here, which was beginning to seem so short and action-packed...it’s stretched out again ahead of me. It’s all perspective, but when you have a few pizzas and hear a few carols...ugali and cement walls and mud...they lose their romantic appeal, at least for the first few days. I think after New Years I will fall back into my rhythm. Here’s hoping.
till ringing, singing on its way, the world revolves from night to day. a voice, a chime, a chant sublime, of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
The first Christmas that I shall ever spend without my family. It won’t be the last. God willing, next year’s Christmas will be the last. But who knows? No one. No person knows where he or she will be next Christmas. ‘through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow’. Well this year, they didn’t. But it’s enough for one little man to know that his family and his friends are well, and that they love him, more than he could possibly deserve. In this year, more than any that have come before, I have been loved and surrounded by love, and it has been...a present. What we have is the something special. I don’t mean prosperity and affluence. I mean happiness, and friends, and lives without lies. It has long been my thought that there are happy people and miserable souls in every walk of life, every tax bracket, in first class and in coach. This year, and most years, I am one of them. And it is because you all remain happy.
and in despair i bow my head. there is no peace on earth, i said. for hate is strong and mocks the song, of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Maisha ni Magumu (life is hard). It would not be a Christmas card from Africa without acknowledging the circumstances of the people with whom I share the yuletide. Do they know it’s Christmastime at all? Yes, yes they do. I have been doing a lot of thinking about the goals of my organization in the last few days, and the goals of so many of the wonderful organizations that do hard, unglamorous work to bring light, even Christmas lights, to a part of the world cautiously emerging from the darkness. But, in my thinking, that attitude is the problem.
I deal with dozens of Tanzanians every day. Some are smarter than me. Some are not. Very, very few were educated as well as I was, and because of that, I possess basic knowledge and processing systems that exceed theirs. I’m not superior to a one of them. Nor are they superior to me. But in the context in which we relate, and in most fundamental relations between developed nations and developing nations, I become the elder statesman. And it makes me feel...awful. I talk to African teachers twice my age, with five times my experience. I need their stories, their advice. But we don’t play on their field. We play on mine. So now it’s me playing the sage, doling out approval or wisdom...and that’s wrong. I become a parent, granting permission or denying cupcakes based on behavior. And that’s not what I am.
This new country of mine has a proud, dignified history, one that goes back far before colonialism, a history that begins with the very first steps of mankind as we know it. But they have drank of the milkshake and seen the glittering streetlights...and that history is being discarded. Ancient women, who should be lording over me and doling out their tales, their advice...they bow to me, and are afraid to speak to me, lest I disapprove. Every other teenager I meet is on his way to America, would much rather talk about Barack Obama than Jakaya Kikwete. And the playing field does not feel level. Because in reality, the playing field is not level. They want to be a developed, Western-style democracy. A TV in every living room and popcorn in every microwave. And those things are great. I know I love them, and I suspect they may as well. It is not for me to judge their desires. To get them, however, they are forced to jump through hoops, learn new rules, be punished when they err like tardy children. There is something fundamentally patronizing about all of it. I get that the fields are not equal. I am here to teach. They are here to learn from me. But maybe it’s one of those fake-it-till-you-make-it deals. Maybe if you expect people to be late to meetings or to skim from budgets, you’ve already lost. Maybe I’m not treating them as equals either. Maybe change begins with the agent of change.
On December 25th, we stop and celebrate for our love for each other. For whatever it may be worth, the people I live with in my village are as worthy of love and admiration as any I have ever met or hope to meet. There are Tanzanian heroes, villains, poets, thieves, carpenters, fathers, and mothers. Their fineries may not be quite as fine, their houses not perhaps so grand. But what we need to truly believe, not just profess but actually believe, is that the quality of a man’s possessions in no way determines or indicates the quality of the man, or woman. On Christmas morning here, we will awake in Africa, hug one another, open our small gifts, slaughter our roosters, and be happy it came. That somehow or other, it came just the same.
then peeled the bells more loud and deep. god is not dead, nor does he sleep. the wrong shall fail, the right prevail. with peace on earth, goodwill to men.
For it is this most beautiful time of year that we alter our hustle and bustle and take time to recognize each other for what we are: beautiful and loving partners in each other’s humanity. No man is an island, and the bell tolls for all of us. There are those of us who manage to survive alone, but in my heart I believe they are the poorer for it. I know the temptation; in fact I feel it often. How easy to care for yourself, to feed your mouth and no other, to win or lose on your lonesome. How hard to offer the little pieces of yourself that love requires, to put your heart on the block, to be broken or sold according to the whims of strangers. But we do it. Why? Because there is something in each of us, some wonderful goodness that it is criminal to conceal. We are not for ourselves. We are for others. To teach, to build, to lead, these are the skills we have, and they are all ways in which we participate in the same rockin’ roller coaster that is this lifetime. In this last year, I have been so damn lucky to live among all of you. I’ve been able to share the lives of my beautiful friends, my unbelievable family, and the love of my life. And they have been able to share my life. Our failures were eased by those who still believed something better lay within us, and our successes were sweeter because they were toasted among friends, high, loud, and repeatedly. On this most unusual of Christmases, I do not feel alone. I am not alone. And that is the purest, most precious present I have ever received. I love you all. Have a very Merry Christmas, and a very Happy New Year.
Merry Christmas from Africa, you joyful band of ne’er-do-elves. It rained for three hours yesterday, and before that it was about 95 degrees and dry, and after it was 75 and humid. Not quite Bing Crosby or Parson Brown type weather, but all in all, given my housing, I appreciate the temperatures.
Just finished my two week in-service-training, where I got to see all of my friends from the beginning of my service. Was really phenomenal, in that we all got to spend a lot of time doing a lot of different things, and relaxing in ways that we often aren’t capable of in our villages. On the down side, got back into my village yesterday, and the time I have here, which was beginning to seem so short and action-packed...it’s stretched out again ahead of me. It’s all perspective, but when you have a few pizzas and hear a few carols...ugali and cement walls and mud...they lose their romantic appeal, at least for the first few days. I think after New Years I will fall back into my rhythm. Here’s hoping.
till ringing, singing on its way, the world revolves from night to day. a voice, a chime, a chant sublime, of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
The first Christmas that I shall ever spend without my family. It won’t be the last. God willing, next year’s Christmas will be the last. But who knows? No one. No person knows where he or she will be next Christmas. ‘through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow’. Well this year, they didn’t. But it’s enough for one little man to know that his family and his friends are well, and that they love him, more than he could possibly deserve. In this year, more than any that have come before, I have been loved and surrounded by love, and it has been...a present. What we have is the something special. I don’t mean prosperity and affluence. I mean happiness, and friends, and lives without lies. It has long been my thought that there are happy people and miserable souls in every walk of life, every tax bracket, in first class and in coach. This year, and most years, I am one of them. And it is because you all remain happy.
and in despair i bow my head. there is no peace on earth, i said. for hate is strong and mocks the song, of peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Maisha ni Magumu (life is hard). It would not be a Christmas card from Africa without acknowledging the circumstances of the people with whom I share the yuletide. Do they know it’s Christmastime at all? Yes, yes they do. I have been doing a lot of thinking about the goals of my organization in the last few days, and the goals of so many of the wonderful organizations that do hard, unglamorous work to bring light, even Christmas lights, to a part of the world cautiously emerging from the darkness. But, in my thinking, that attitude is the problem.
I deal with dozens of Tanzanians every day. Some are smarter than me. Some are not. Very, very few were educated as well as I was, and because of that, I possess basic knowledge and processing systems that exceed theirs. I’m not superior to a one of them. Nor are they superior to me. But in the context in which we relate, and in most fundamental relations between developed nations and developing nations, I become the elder statesman. And it makes me feel...awful. I talk to African teachers twice my age, with five times my experience. I need their stories, their advice. But we don’t play on their field. We play on mine. So now it’s me playing the sage, doling out approval or wisdom...and that’s wrong. I become a parent, granting permission or denying cupcakes based on behavior. And that’s not what I am.
This new country of mine has a proud, dignified history, one that goes back far before colonialism, a history that begins with the very first steps of mankind as we know it. But they have drank of the milkshake and seen the glittering streetlights...and that history is being discarded. Ancient women, who should be lording over me and doling out their tales, their advice...they bow to me, and are afraid to speak to me, lest I disapprove. Every other teenager I meet is on his way to America, would much rather talk about Barack Obama than Jakaya Kikwete. And the playing field does not feel level. Because in reality, the playing field is not level. They want to be a developed, Western-style democracy. A TV in every living room and popcorn in every microwave. And those things are great. I know I love them, and I suspect they may as well. It is not for me to judge their desires. To get them, however, they are forced to jump through hoops, learn new rules, be punished when they err like tardy children. There is something fundamentally patronizing about all of it. I get that the fields are not equal. I am here to teach. They are here to learn from me. But maybe it’s one of those fake-it-till-you-make-it deals. Maybe if you expect people to be late to meetings or to skim from budgets, you’ve already lost. Maybe I’m not treating them as equals either. Maybe change begins with the agent of change.
On December 25th, we stop and celebrate for our love for each other. For whatever it may be worth, the people I live with in my village are as worthy of love and admiration as any I have ever met or hope to meet. There are Tanzanian heroes, villains, poets, thieves, carpenters, fathers, and mothers. Their fineries may not be quite as fine, their houses not perhaps so grand. But what we need to truly believe, not just profess but actually believe, is that the quality of a man’s possessions in no way determines or indicates the quality of the man, or woman. On Christmas morning here, we will awake in Africa, hug one another, open our small gifts, slaughter our roosters, and be happy it came. That somehow or other, it came just the same.
then peeled the bells more loud and deep. god is not dead, nor does he sleep. the wrong shall fail, the right prevail. with peace on earth, goodwill to men.
For it is this most beautiful time of year that we alter our hustle and bustle and take time to recognize each other for what we are: beautiful and loving partners in each other’s humanity. No man is an island, and the bell tolls for all of us. There are those of us who manage to survive alone, but in my heart I believe they are the poorer for it. I know the temptation; in fact I feel it often. How easy to care for yourself, to feed your mouth and no other, to win or lose on your lonesome. How hard to offer the little pieces of yourself that love requires, to put your heart on the block, to be broken or sold according to the whims of strangers. But we do it. Why? Because there is something in each of us, some wonderful goodness that it is criminal to conceal. We are not for ourselves. We are for others. To teach, to build, to lead, these are the skills we have, and they are all ways in which we participate in the same rockin’ roller coaster that is this lifetime. In this last year, I have been so damn lucky to live among all of you. I’ve been able to share the lives of my beautiful friends, my unbelievable family, and the love of my life. And they have been able to share my life. Our failures were eased by those who still believed something better lay within us, and our successes were sweeter because they were toasted among friends, high, loud, and repeatedly. On this most unusual of Christmases, I do not feel alone. I am not alone. And that is the purest, most precious present I have ever received. I love you all. Have a very Merry Christmas, and a very Happy New Year.
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