tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49842209489286533142024-03-05T12:33:59.271+03:00Dar DaysHow we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-55580624169276022312010-06-02T13:58:00.003+03:002010-06-02T14:05:50.426+03:00Schoolgirls, Visitors, and Winding Down<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/TAY6vzBxk7I/AAAAAAAAANU/aOT1HL0jwzw/s1600/DSC05982.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/TAY6vzBxk7I/AAAAAAAAANU/aOT1HL0jwzw/s200/DSC05982.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478130589568701362" /></a><br /><br />Yes, I'm still alive. And yes, I still suck at updating my blog consistently. Here's a peek at what I've been up to.<br /><br />Towards the end of May I spent about a week in the field and although it was pretty sad to know that it was my last trip into the field, I also got to do some pretty cool stuff. I dropped in on two secondary schools and interviewed some students about their views on one of our major interventions and issues affecting their education. This was really exciting but also pretty intimidating for a few reasons. For one, TZ uses a different school system from the U.S. so most of these secondary school students were my age or sometimes even older. And secondly, I knew I would have to conduct the interviews in Swahili. Although my Swahili is pretty good I can sometimes be shy. Add to that having to talk about sensitive and personal issues, with people you don't know, and to do it all in a foreign language....I was a bit intimidated. But I pulled it off and I'm glad I did it because it was such a rewarding experience. The students were warm and friendly and opened up without hesitation about the roadblocks they face in getting their basic education.<br /><br /><br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/TAY6AtrgQ_I/AAAAAAAAANM/o4q_-fz7SYo/s200/DSC05971.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478129780679263218" />One girl told me how she walks a long distance to school every morning because her grandmother couldn't afford the 250/= Tshs (about 18 cents) for bus fare. Once she reached school, she studies on an empty stomach all day b/c she has no money for tea during break time and her house is too far to go home for break, like most students do. Besides even if she could go home there would nothing there for her to eat. Although the school day ends at 2, she stays after until 6 studying with her friends and making sure she understands the material. She leaves the school around dusk to walk home alone. On the way she gets hit on by men old enough to be her father but she keeps to herself and arrives home just in time for dinner, the only meal of the day. Listening to her story was tough, but what was even tougher was realizing that, unfortunately, her circumstances are not unique. I heard a lot of the same story over and over again.<br /> In preparation for our visits to the schools we had gathered the field staff the previous day for a meeting. Some of the major concerns that came up in the meeting centered around the lack of sexual/reproductive health education in secondary schools, cross-generational sex, and teen pregnancy, and the unfair domestic burdens placed on girls. A lightbulb went off. (If you know me, then you know that women's/girls' rights are kind of my "thing". You also know that I'm a strong proponent for educating girls about sexual/reproductive health, birth control options, informed consent and decision making as a way to increase their educational opportunities and likelihood for financial stability and independence down the line.) So when these concerns came up in the meeting it was right up my alley. I got to combine all my interests/passions in one exercise. I couldn't wait to head out to the schools and ask African schoolgirls how sexual health issues were affecting their progress in school. And they were, surprisingly, not very hesitant about answering.<br /> They were quick to tell me that older men often pressured them for cross-generational sex and that they knew girls who slept with these men for money or material goods, as a way to take the edge off the extreme poverty they faced at home. They told me about several girls who had become pregnant and had to drop out before completing secondary school and they were quick to point out that the school offered no sex ed besides the very nuts and bolts basic information they learned in biology class. They also talked about how the long list of household chores assigned to girls made it difficult for them to find time to study, while there brothers got off pretty much scott-free. My chats with them were definitely the highlight of my trip and they really got me thinking about future directions for my own education and career.<br />That trip was pretty much the highlight of May.<br /><br />As for June, I imagine it will be one of the best parts of this year, but also one of the worst. The best because, I'm expecting some pretty awesome visitors! One of my closest friends, T, is coming to TZ to learn swahili at the University of Dar es Salaam and I can't wait to hang out with her, especially after having not seen her for an entire year! And as if that wasn't awesome enough, another friend, M, is coming to do some stuff for her PhD and will be staying with me!! I'm so excited to see to see these two people whom I love very much! T will be here in 3 days and M will be here in 5, so I would say June has gotten off to a pretty baller start.<br /><br />What I'm not looking forward to, however, is the end of June which is going to suck for several reasons. There are the obvious sucky parts like leaving my friends and boyfriend behind and leaving Dar itself, but there's also logistics like-- how the hell am i supposed to put all the stuff I've accumulated over a year into two suitcases?<br /><br />Ugh. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, I'm just going to enjoy my company! <3Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-47757289736910695742010-03-30T16:44:00.005+03:002010-06-02T14:11:58.974+03:00Still Hanging in There/ The Malaria Post<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sorry to have been M.I.A for so long. It’s a function of having fully adjusted to living here. Once you solve all the logistical problems like how to use a squatty potty and how to keep monkeys from stealing your clothes off the line life becomes pretty routine. And once you get used to being spoiled by fresh mangoes and ripe pineapples anytime you want, it stops feeling like a vacation and starts feeling like home. Homesickness has reared it’s head a time of two since my last entry in December, but mostly I’m hanging in there. I’ve just been swamped at work, with everything for visits from the organization’s president, to 1 a.m. nights in the office, to writing a million and one proposals simultaneously.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">In February I contracted 3+ malaria. I was a little concerned about the high fever but mostly I was just pissed off. I had this lofty goal of spending a whole year in East Africa with no prophylactics and not getting malaria. Imagine my dismay at making it well past the halfway mark (almost to the ¾ mark, in fact) only to have to admit defeat. It’s still a lot better than my last stint in East Africa where I didn’t even last 6 weeks. Other than the typical symptoms (i.e., feeling like death, coughing up a lung, grandma-ish joint pain, etc.) I got some puzzling ones like earaches and debilitating dizziness. The absolute lows included cold sweats, shivers, and fevers well over 101, but on the upside I got a Friday off from work! The most annoying aspect of malaria was seeing an incompetent doctor who asked me what medication I should take (You tell me! You’re the doctor!!!), and then told me I should come back to the hospital if my fever went over 150. Not 105 but 150. Yeah...moving on…despite all of that, malaria did have it’s amusing moments like being overcome by dizziness on the way to the bathroom and smacking my forehead on a table on the way down. Yeah, I got to sport a nice little forehead knot that lasted long after the last malaria symptom were gone. <span style="font-family:Wingdings;mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type:symbol;mso-symbol-font-family:Wingdings;">L</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Having had malaria before, I wasn’t all that worried (even though the malaria I had the first time was a little milder). All in all, I popped the 24 prescribed pills, slept a lot, drank a lot of juice and got better, thank God, but you better believe I’m still pissed about not achieving the malaria free year.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Of course it could have had something to do with this:</p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/S7Q-hSTU25I/AAAAAAAAAMU/QsUfufyBe00/s200/mosquito+arm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455053790222015378" /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><br /></p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/S7Q-hwYWneI/AAAAAAAAAMc/Xxv7L9vofFk/s200/mosquito+leg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455053798296165858" /><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/S7Q-iWbOj4I/AAAAAAAAAMk/TFocVP3O3Xk/s200/mosquito+leg+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455053808508768130" /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">And, yes, I used repellant. And, no, obviously it didn’t actually repel anything <span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-family:Wingdings;"><span style="font-family:Wingdings;">L</span></span><b>*sigh*</b></p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-39148450503312696462009-12-02T15:51:00.004+03:002009-12-03T08:03:28.208+03:00Last one (in will be) standing<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(85, 26, 139); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0E8Xsym76Ze6m7pAdt1-O1wJoyhbAq5PkiywSuG-FFZ3hMfGnylwI8ASwmV6axOBKDNO4yCwyGq4hzd5TcgV-2pz639Jv_uvfbhlyqJfYGZJRt1oB_uceet7CUEL7cP0SV8rrdTBZN_f3/s400/usafiri_dsm.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span>If you've never taken public transportation in Dar es Salaam then I don't know how to describe it to you. It involves lots of sweating, pushing, shoving, plotting, suqeezing, toxic exhaust, and street hawkers trying to sell you handkerchiefs or water or knives or magazines or cigarettes or towels or...well you get the point. It's the only time when your ELDERLY, PREGNANT, or DISABLED card is invalid. <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>While waiting for the bus you'd better offer your respectful greetings to the granny at the bus stop next to you, but when the bus pulls up its do or die. You and Granny will lock on to opposites side of the door frame, each of you with one foot on the first step. Your knees will jockey for position, your elbows will poke each other in the ear, slam each other's heads into the door frame. You'll bruise each other's hips trying to squeeze through the door at the same time. You might throw a slight elbow into granny's sternum. And when u manage to climb into the bus before Granny, you will quickly scurry into the last remaining seat and victoriously straighten out your trousers and arrange your briefcase in your lap. If you are strong enough you will avoid the struggle with Granny altogether and beat her to the seat by climbing up onto the bus's back tire and through the window.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Sometimes, when things get really dire (4:30 p.m. on a Friday or 6:55 a.m. on a Monday) pushing, squeezing, and elbowing pregnant ladies doesn't even get you a seat. Instead what you are fighting for is the last 1 ft x 1 ft x 5 ft space left in the bus. The prize of not having to wait the 10 minutes for the next bus.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And heaven forbid you're riding a popular bus to the end of line. Chances are you won't even make it off the bus before the impatient mob waiting at the station storms in through the main door, the windows, and even the driver's door. And let's hope you don't have a child or a package b/c even if you make it out anything not physically attached to your body will be lost in the struggle. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Desparate moms hand their children through the windows of the bus, into the laps of strangers and then work their way back to the main door to fight their way through the flurry of elbows, heads, bags, and buckets then struggle through the opening as the bus rocks violently side to side, helpless under the motion of the mob.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Personally, I don't think having a seat on the bus is worth the physical injury that usually comes with the requisite pushing and shoving so I usually stand back from the violent crowd and wait patiently until things settle a little. Then I admittedly squeeze past some grannies, press close to the person in front of me, and block the doorway as much as I can so that no one slides in front of me. Even though I still have to do my fair share of pushing and shoving, this is what passes for patience in comparison to the mob that throws punches and pushes each other off the bus steps. As a reward for my "patience" I get to stand up-- for 45 min to an hour, in a bus so crowded it feels like being a octuplet in your mom's womb at full term. Actually, scratch that, those octuplets probably have more space than I do. All of this in a non-air conditioned bus, with 3,000% humidity, in a completely stationary traffic jam, with someone's Grandpa breathing on your neck and someone's reeking armpit within 3 in. of your face. Fun, fun, fun. Not to mention the bus is a 30 year old stick shift, and the drivers are impatient daredevils who cut people off, tailgate, drive into oncoming traffic, and create lanes where they don't exist. Does this explain how I can pull muscles and break a sweat just trying to hold on for the ride?</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>And getting a seat is not much better. If you sit in the aisle seat, you get to have someone's butt/elbow/breast/handbag/briefcase either threatening to poke you in the eye or leaning directly onto your head. If you sitting in the window seat you get to be squished by the person sitting in the aisle seat as they try to escape the butt/elbow/breast/handbag/briefcase that is suffocating them. But hey, at least you get the window because you're really the only one can feel the breeze. If you sit in the back, good luck getting the conductor to hear you when you call out your stop. And if he hears you, good luck making your way up the aisle (a.k.a. birth canal) to get out the door. All of this presents the perfect environment to be pickpocketed or contract swine flu/cholera/TB which I why I usually rush to the nearest sink/tub for a bucket shower or arm scrub upon arriving at my destination.</div><div> For 4 months I put up with this every morning and evening thinking I had no alternative (taxis are too expensive for everyday, twice a day, use) until one day my commute buddy said "I think the Posta buses are running late today. Why don't we take the Kariakoo bus?" And that day my whole life changed. It was like to sky opened up and the angels began to sing. </div><div>Now I get a seat every morning, EVERY SINGLE MORNING. No one coughs in my ear, no grandmas press their saggy breasts into my back, no one rests their briefcase on my side or nuzzles my hip into their buttcrack. I reach my final destination without sweat stains, and still in a good mood. Why did it take my commute buddy sooooo long to mention this heaven of an alternate route? The Kariakoo bus had made a believer out of me. Yes, it cost a little more since the bus doesn't get as close to my office and I have to take another form of transportation to close the final distance. But I think an extra 2,000 shillings is worth the small bubble of personal space that <i>almost</i> lives up to American standards.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://andreasholm.blogg.se/images/p1010146_1175582472.jpg"><img src="http://andreasholm.blogg.se/images/p1010146_1175582472.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="cursor: pointer; width: 448px; height: 336px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-74711275691426009802009-11-13T15:08:00.001+03:002009-11-13T15:12:29.166+03:00...'til it's gone<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">As the saying goes, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. When I was still in the U.S. I used to dread the end of summer. Fall is hardly a fair substitution for long days of no school and all the swimming and ice cream you can handle. Yeah, the leaves are kinda pretty but they get old after the first two weeks, and they just give your Mom another chore to add to the list. (“Go rake the back yard!”) Since I was about 14, summer has been my favorite season. In fact, when I decided to move to Tanzania, I was psyched about what would essentially be a year of continuous summer. No school (although, there is a full time job involved), no cold weather, and lots and lots of trips to the beach.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Now I’m four months in, (only one month more than the length of the average American summer) and I’m already sick for fall. I never thought I would say this but I miss weather cool enough for boots and scarves. I miss the fiery colors of autumn leaves, the first day of school butterflies, back to school shopping, and even the knowledge that snow is around the corner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">But what I miss the most about the year-end season is the holidays. I have always loved Thanksgiving and New Years but somewhere around 13ish I stopped being wild about Christmas. The shrill cheerfulness of Christmas songs has long rang false in my ears, the endless mounds of pine needles always stick to the feet of my tights, and the sickeningly thick sweetness of eggnog always did give me a tummy ache. But these are exactly the things I find myself missing the most. Here we are in mid-November and its so weird to not be complaining about the draft in the living room or listening to my Mom scream defensive plays at the miniature Dallas cowboys running around inside the TV. It’s strange to not be visiting the mall over and over again to find that perfect present for Dad or trying to stretch my modest Christmas savings enough to buy a little <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">thinking-of-you</i> something for all 25 of my cousins. No fires in auntie’s fireplace, no shiny-eyed little brother cuddling me awake at 6 a.m., no Mommy laughing at A Christmas Story, yet again (Did you hear, Kris?! ‘A pink nightmare!’) Nope, those things won’t be happening this year. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">And you would think the Grinch in me would finally be satisfied. No Christmas means nothing to complain about. But instead I find myself missing all those little things that are essential to the Ford family Christmas I’m used to. The flurry of wrapping paper and excited voices as everyone tries to exchange presents at once, the home cooked food with lots of Auntie Love and Mama Love stirred in, that lingering holiday smell—some mixture of pine needles, cinnamon and pumpkins--, the heat blasting in the car and Zachary asleep in the back seat on the way home from Mama D’s at 2 a.m. And yes, even the cold weather. But this year, instead of being there to experiencing these things, I’ll be thinking of my family and hoping they know I’m wishing I could be there with them. Maybe next year those Christmas songs won’t be so annoying and while I’m trying not to sweat to death in my wool sweater while navigating the Christmas-shopping mall traffic I won’t be concentrating on how frustrating it is. I’ll be cherishing it that much more because I’ll know what it’s like to spend a holiday away from home. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thinking of you all, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Krista</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-84478792042914402662009-10-26T15:56:00.004+03:002009-10-26T16:11:11.376+03:00My favorite NorwegiansHiding out from the rain with my favorite Norwegians. <div><br /><br /></div><div>The Quiet Karen:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeh0-kGKI/AAAAAAAAALg/Wp13v1pBf88/s1600-h/IMG_4360.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIjg474I/AAAAAAAAAKw/DEom8KyTS58/s1600-h/IMG_4296.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIjg474I/AAAAAAAAAKw/DEom8KyTS58/s400/IMG_4296.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893598282739586" style="cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 213px; " /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIjg474I/AAAAAAAAAKw/DEom8KyTS58/s1600-h/IMG_4296.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWehgsJ8sI/AAAAAAAAALY/fINsZOp8_CY/s1600-h/IMG_4432.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 319px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWehgsJ8sI/AAAAAAAAALY/fINsZOp8_CY/s400/IMG_4432.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396894027021415106" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWehgsJ8sI/AAAAAAAAALY/fINsZOp8_CY/s1600-h/IMG_4432.jpg"></a>The Awesome HanneSophie:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeJc9ItcI/AAAAAAAAALQ/4JYm_kk6-Lk/s1600-h/IMG_4447.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeJc9ItcI/AAAAAAAAALQ/4JYm_kk6-Lk/s400/IMG_4447.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893613702034882" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeJc9ItcI/AAAAAAAAALQ/4JYm_kk6-Lk/s1600-h/IMG_4447.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeJHy4PAI/AAAAAAAAALI/BNvrnoiZ2ZM/s1600-h/IMG_4446.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 319px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeJHy4PAI/AAAAAAAAALI/BNvrnoiZ2ZM/s400/IMG_4446.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893608021867522" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeJHy4PAI/AAAAAAAAALI/BNvrnoiZ2ZM/s1600-h/IMG_4446.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeI9raIbI/AAAAAAAAALA/jI84hVRgUqs/s1600-h/IMG_4412.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeI9raIbI/AAAAAAAAALA/jI84hVRgUqs/s400/IMG_4412.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893605306180018" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeI9raIbI/AAAAAAAAALA/jI84hVRgUqs/s1600-h/IMG_4412.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIkDxhJI/AAAAAAAAAK4/BGP4_s5zJRU/s1600-h/IMG_4409.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 212px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIkDxhJI/AAAAAAAAAK4/BGP4_s5zJRU/s400/IMG_4409.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893598429054098" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIkDxhJI/AAAAAAAAAK4/BGP4_s5zJRU/s1600-h/IMG_4409.jpg"></a>Melkerull. Amazing Norwegian chocolate. Often featured in our "chocolate parties" :-). It also happens to be the only word of Norwegian I know :-D<br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeIjg474I/AAAAAAAAAKw/DEom8KyTS58/s1600-h/IMG_4296.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeiArjFDI/AAAAAAAAALo/-fXwk__6-TI/s1600-h/IMG_4374.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeiArjFDI/AAAAAAAAALo/-fXwk__6-TI/s400/IMG_4374.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396894035608802354" style="cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 212px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWeiArjFDI/AAAAAAAAALo/-fXwk__6-TI/s1600-h/IMG_4374.jpg"></a>I'm missing these lovely ladies! Can't wait to see them next weekend...<br /><br /></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-3678323382433178092009-10-26T15:00:00.007+03:002009-10-26T16:02:10.081+03:00Photo Edition: Rainy WeekendSo Dar has been going through a drought, which means electricity is on the blink. Let me explain... Since Tanzania relies on hydroelectric power, no rain means no water and no water means no electricity. To avoid things becoming dire, Tanesco, the power company, has stepped in and set up a system of power rations to stretch the remaining water until the heavy rains show up. They divide the city into sections which takes turns being without power. For us that means as long as the dry weather continues we will have a lot of days without power and since indoor plumbing relies on water being pumped (by an electric pump) into the pipes from a huge tank, no power can mean no running water. The family I live with is used to this situation so we have tons of back up water stored in tanks and containers in an around the house. But as a spoiled American for whom lack of power and running water are extremely rare, these things can be maddening. My office usually runs on a generator so that we can still get things down with electricity but they are really expensive and they run on gasoline which means the produce lots of disgusting fumes and I read somewhere that gas cost something like $5/gallon here so most homes don't have one b/c its too expensive. We certainly don't have one. <div><br /></div><div>Anyway, it seems like we might be looking at an end to the drought because on Saturday it rained and rained like crazy. <div><br /></div><div>I had a 9 o'clock appointment that I was on my way to when it started raining. Ok, more like I was being stood up for my 9 o'clock appointment when it started raining. Needless to say, I was not happy. I had to wake up early after clubbing until 4 a.m. to travel through a typhoon only to be stood up! (The day only got worse as I paid a lot of money for disgusting food, lost my umbrella, had to pay a ridiculous price to get another one, got hit on by several creepy guys, and got begged for money by a street kid who has out-of-his-mind-high on God knows what, all within the same 6 hour period). My housemates and I had plans to head into town to do some shopping but when we saw that the torrential downpour wasn't going to let up we decided to head back home instead. We changed into dry clothes and spent the evening huddled in their room talking, reading, and listening to music (read: Tegan and Sara. I've got HanneSophie hooked). On Sunday they left for Zanzibar (where I will hopefully be joining them next weekend) and I spent the day preparing for Monday and hanging out with Sia. Being trapped inside for most of the weekend bored me out of my mind so I grabbed a camera and started snapping pics of anything that looked interesting. These pics should help you guys get a feel for what my house is like. Enjoy ;)<br /><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbUxQbSI/AAAAAAAAAKo/kWtfVKQZCaU/s1600-h/IMG_4453.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbUxQbSI/AAAAAAAAAKo/kWtfVKQZCaU/s400/IMG_4453.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396882925626092834" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbUxQbSI/AAAAAAAAAKo/kWtfVKQZCaU/s1600-h/IMG_4453.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbP8I_5I/AAAAAAAAAKg/GQVmmgXUyww/s1600-h/IMG_4382.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 319px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbP8I_5I/AAAAAAAAAKg/GQVmmgXUyww/s400/IMG_4382.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396882924329566098" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbP8I_5I/AAAAAAAAAKg/GQVmmgXUyww/s1600-h/IMG_4382.jpg"></a>(The crazy multi-country adapter thingy my housemates use to plug their Norwegian appliances into the Tanzanian outlets).</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbBoZDiI/AAAAAAAAAKY/tz7KWk_cyfM/s1600-h/IMG_4372.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 319px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbBoZDiI/AAAAAAAAAKY/tz7KWk_cyfM/s400/IMG_4372.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396882920488635938" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUbBoZDiI/AAAAAAAAAKY/tz7KWk_cyfM/s1600-h/IMG_4372.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUa7oxuMI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/C7IScXqJzNE/s1600-h/IMG_4342.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 212px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUa7oxuMI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/C7IScXqJzNE/s400/IMG_4342.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396882918879639746" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWUa7oxuMI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/C7IScXqJzNE/s1600-h/IMG_4342.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS5KRZCKI/AAAAAAAAAKI/mEWLC_k5KWg/s1600-h/IMG_4462.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 319px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS5KRZCKI/AAAAAAAAAKI/mEWLC_k5KWg/s400/IMG_4462.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396881239180904610" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4hijH2I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/pqLFDisUlr0/s1600-h/DSC05545.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4hijH2I/AAAAAAAAAJ4/pqLFDisUlr0/s400/DSC05545.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396881228247015266" /></a></div><div>The view from my back window during one of the rare breaks in the rain.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4oEPw2I/AAAAAAAAAJw/amLYxp1ULAM/s1600-h/DSC05544.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4oEPw2I/AAAAAAAAAJw/amLYxp1ULAM/s400/DSC05544.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396881229998965602" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4oEPw2I/AAAAAAAAAJw/amLYxp1ULAM/s1600-h/DSC05544.jpg"></a>front window</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4V9h-LI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ADxD78w6wQU/s1600-h/DSC05542.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4V9h-LI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ADxD78w6wQU/s400/DSC05542.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396881225138960562" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWS4V9h-LI/AAAAAAAAAJo/ADxD78w6wQU/s1600-h/DSC05542.jpg"></a>stairs (pretty self-explanatory, huh?)</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWScJoV5uI/AAAAAAAAAJg/hzLf2f1Eh84/s1600-h/DSC05536.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWScJoV5uI/AAAAAAAAAJg/hzLf2f1Eh84/s400/DSC05536.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396880740792526562" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWScJoV5uI/AAAAAAAAAJg/hzLf2f1Eh84/s1600-h/DSC05536.jpg"></a>the dryer. lol. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWScC5ZV2I/AAAAAAAAAJY/aaRlNLfsh_g/s1600-h/DSC05531.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWScC5ZV2I/AAAAAAAAAJY/aaRlNLfsh_g/s400/DSC05531.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396880738985006946" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWScC5ZV2I/AAAAAAAAAJY/aaRlNLfsh_g/s1600-h/DSC05531.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbynHf1I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/JQxkAPt-d0o/s1600-h/DSC05514.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbynHf1I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/JQxkAPt-d0o/s400/DSC05514.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396880734613372754" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbynHf1I/AAAAAAAAAJQ/JQxkAPt-d0o/s1600-h/DSC05514.jpg"></a>upstairs hallway. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbl4zRMI/AAAAAAAAAJI/sR33oE8Jl0o/s1600-h/DSC05497.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbl4zRMI/AAAAAAAAAJI/sR33oE8Jl0o/s400/DSC05497.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396880731197883586" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbl4zRMI/AAAAAAAAAJI/sR33oE8Jl0o/s1600-h/DSC05497.jpg"></a>corner of the bathroom. </div><div><br /></div><div>yes, the washing machine is in the bathroom. The big cylinder uptop is the water heater which makes hot (bucket) showers possible. In TZ the "bathroom" is usually only the tub/shower and a sink. The toilet and another sink are in a separate room. I thought it was weird at first but with seven people living in our house it definitely cuts down on traffic jams. (If someone's using the "bathroom", I can always use the sink in the toilet room to brush my teeth.)</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbuLYOXI/AAAAAAAAAJA/paGC52UCJ38/s1600-h/DSC05493.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SuWSbuLYOXI/AAAAAAAAAJA/paGC52UCJ38/s400/DSC05493.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396880733423286642" /></a><br /></div><div>lunch preparation. </div><div><br /></div><div>most of the meat we eat is boiled in this pressure cooker. I'm still not sure how I feel about boiled meat. Both of my parents hate boiled meat so in my house it was always a no-no. Since I didn't grow up on boiled meat I would prefer baked, brazed, roasted, grilled or even fried but hey...I'm not the one cooking.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I guess one good thing did come out of this weekend. I'm glad I got pictures of my house. I feel like in the future it'll be nice to look at them and reminisce about where I lived when I was in TZ. As for the weather the rain was a bit intense but I'm getting tired of the "power rations". I can't decide whether I'd rather have (more) consistent access to electricity or dry weather. We'll see what the rain gods think.</div></div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-11722355696186036402009-10-07T10:12:00.020+03:002009-10-07T14:35:26.048+03:00Photo Edition: Art and FashionSince I've been here the local fashion has really grown on me. I've made a few purchases including bracelets, earrings, clothing, traditional fabrics, etc. and today I've decided to share them here. Check it out:<br /><div><br /></div><div><b>Jewelry:</b></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGuMa2lCI/AAAAAAAAAFA/RSG3MRVDC_w/s1600-h/DSC05453.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 238px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGuMa2lCI/AAAAAAAAAFA/RSG3MRVDC_w/s400/DSC05453.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389760613477422114" /></a><div>These earrings are really cool because both pair are made out of banana leaves. I'm not entirely sure how they do it but the end result is pretty cool (and surprisingly durable). I paid 1,000/Tshs for each pair. That's about 77 cent per pair. </div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGuMa2lCI/AAAAAAAAAFA/RSG3MRVDC_w/s1600-h/DSC05453.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGtklpX_I/AAAAAAAAAE4/jF0l0ecLIYc/s1600-h/DSC05443.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGtklpX_I/AAAAAAAAAE4/jF0l0ecLIYc/s400/DSC05443.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389760602785275890" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGtklpX_I/AAAAAAAAAE4/jF0l0ecLIYc/s1600-h/DSC05443.jpg"></a>These earrings are made out of bull's horn. After they are formed into a shape they are dyed. It didn't really show up well in the picture but the ones one the bottom are a really pretty shade of purple. These also cost 1,000/Tshs per pair.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGLyRjmJI/AAAAAAAAAEo/S94dCHM7vxQ/s1600-h/DSC05459.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 239px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGLyRjmJI/AAAAAAAAAEo/S94dCHM7vxQ/s400/DSC05459.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389760022343555218" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Both pairs of these earrings are made out of ebony. These also cost 1,000/Tshs per pair. </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGLyRjmJI/AAAAAAAAAEo/S94dCHM7vxQ/s1600-h/DSC05459.jpg"></a><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGLyRjmJI/AAAAAAAAAEo/S94dCHM7vxQ/s1600-h/DSC05459.jpg"></a><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 226px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxGtYucaWI/AAAAAAAAAEw/8eM7IgoA6qI/s400/DSC05440.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389760599600949602" /></div><div>Just a closer look at my little baby elephants :~)</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHe5nbEaI/AAAAAAAAAFY/OtiIQA3-gx8/s1600-h/DSC05461.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHe5nbEaI/AAAAAAAAAFY/OtiIQA3-gx8/s400/DSC05461.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389761450243461538" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 177px; " /></a></div><div>These bracelets are made from small plastic beads strung onto a wire. They are <a href="http://chickabouttown.files.wordpress.com/2007/12/masai-women-working.jpg">made by Massai ladies</a> and you usually get about 5 for 1,000/Tshs. The Massai are famous for their <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDdUEsdZdr0h4THCiR9G0IXzt6l7GX54qLz9jHgwsSvYfsDhyphenhyphenfHheqfdGtS4WGSdSw7gFRNPeu5xEGhENIuOWL26gFK8X0-m4zAPVREpv-HprD4jNnKVkg9QGqS2lX-JbePJ8kN_FzCRo/s400/pretty_masai_girl.jpg">intricate beaded jewelry</a>. Here's another cool pic of <a href="http://img2.photographersdirect.com/img/12366/wm/pd348962.jpg">Massai jewelry</a>. Click here to read more about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Massai">Massai</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHegJwPuI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/OYbdcHnh8Yo/s1600-h/DSC05460.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHegJwPuI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/OYbdcHnh8Yo/s400/DSC05460.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389761443408133858" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>I'm not exactly sure what the gold-ish ones are made of but they cost me 1,500/Tshs each. The one in the middle is made of soapstone. I actually bought it last year so I don't remeber how much I paid for it but I'm almost sure it wasn't over 3,000/Tshs.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHeE-wYnI/AAAAAAAAAFI/v6E82xmWfJU/s1600-h/DSC05454.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHeE-wYnI/AAAAAAAAAFI/v6E82xmWfJU/s400/DSC05454.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389761436114248306" style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div>These anklets were also made by Massai ladies and they cost me 1,500/Tshs a piece. It is Massai custom to <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_ygUPp5cLWIA/SHjCsX9TpYI/AAAAAAAAACU/I5hn85bcqU4/Masai+3+woman+making+jewelry.JPG">wear an anklet on each leg</a> as some sects don't believe anything comes single. For them, everything comes in twos.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Art:</b></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHfrPa_jI/AAAAAAAAAFo/QOOhClfWd14/s1600-h/DSC05436.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHfrPa_jI/AAAAAAAAAFo/QOOhClfWd14/s400/DSC05436.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389761463564566066" style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 319px; " /></a></div><div>A friend of mine had this cool ebony statue made for me for my birthday. The giraffe is the national animal of Tanzania and she is also one my personal favorites. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHfKx8seI/AAAAAAAAAFg/SrQTaXxPS7s/s1600-h/DSC05435.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxHfKx8seI/AAAAAAAAAFg/SrQTaXxPS7s/s400/DSC05435.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389761454851011042" style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div>He had the words "Happy Bday Krista" carved into the base for me. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Vitenge:</b></div><div><br /></div><div>In Tanzania you will find a mix of Western and traditional fashions. Many women choose to buy sheets of raw fabric (vitenge) at the market and take it to a seamstress to have it made into <a href="http://media.commercialappeal.com/mca/content/img/photos/2009/02/20/21program1.jpeg">traditional clothin</a>g. I've purchsed a few different patterns with the intention of having clothing and other items made from them. </div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJwYoYdsI/AAAAAAAAAFw/T4XkbD5ZBUo/s400/DSC05464.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389763949650015938" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></div><div>I like this one because it's so BRIGHT but I have no idea what I'm going to make out of it yet.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJwh4xJFI/AAAAAAAAAF4/nP_pshCgFYs/s1600-h/DSC05465.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJwh4xJFI/AAAAAAAAAF4/nP_pshCgFYs/s400/DSC05465.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389763952134661202" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>This one is also pretty awesome but...</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJxLegyuI/AAAAAAAAAGA/jFsDcnYF7ZA/s1600-h/DSC05469.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJxLegyuI/AAAAAAAAAGA/jFsDcnYF7ZA/s400/DSC05469.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389763963298826978" style="cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 263px; " /></a></div><div>... ^this^ one is my absolute favorite so far :~)</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJxUzUahI/AAAAAAAAAGI/v30HP2F3nQA/s1600-h/DSC05470.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJxUzUahI/AAAAAAAAAGI/v30HP2F3nQA/s400/DSC05470.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389763965802015250" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 239px; " /></a></div><div>I'm kind of one the fence about this one. I bought it last week and now I'm not sure whether I like it or not :( </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Kangas:</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Kangas are very common in Dar and are native to East Africa. They feature bright colors, cool patterns, and a saying at the bottom. They come in pairs and here in Dar the going price is usually between 3,000/Tshs and 5,000/Tshs. Check out this link for more on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kanga_(African_garment)">kanga</a>s.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJx5cE4bI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/lz9rOGCBNhg/s1600-h/DSC05471.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxJx5cE4bI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/lz9rOGCBNhg/s400/DSC05471.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389763975636640178" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>Kangas are pretty big (about 1.5 meters by 1 meter) so I enlisted the help of my housemates. The Mama and Baba at my house gave me this Tanzania themed kanga for my birthday. This particular kanga is pretty common among tourists b/c it sums up most of the pretty awesome parts about Tanzania. The edges are bordered by various wild animals since TZ is known for its game parks. The national animal, the giraffe, is also featured near the center.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKrbbKjJI/AAAAAAAAAGo/JhetHzTRCHU/s1600-h/DSC05476.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKrbbKjJI/AAAAAAAAAGo/JhetHzTRCHU/s400/DSC05476.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389764964012166290" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>Here's a close up of the center. Serengeti, Ngorogoro, and Mikumi are the names of some pretty famous national parks in TZ. The saying at the bottom says "Ubaya hauna kwao Mola nisitri njama zao." It basically translates to something along the lines of "God, protect me from their bad plans."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLdJmiYQI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/d51rM519dyY/s1600-h/DSC05481.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLdJmiYQI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/d51rM519dyY/s400/DSC05481.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389765818221486338" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>All of East Africa is psyched about Obama...but not for the same reasons we are. Most of them care less about the fact that he is the first black president in America's 200+ year history. For them the excitement is about his Kenyan ancestry. Obama kangas started popping up all over E.Africa after the election and they're being sold at 2 to 3 times the normal price. Nowadays the price is even higher since they're starting to become more and more rare. I got lucky because I got this one for my birthday. I don't own one but when Micheal Jackson died a <a href="http://sites.google.com/site/simplytanzanian/_/rsrc/1250489879219/home/Michael.jpg">Michael Jackson kanga</a> also popped up on the market. It says "We will always remember you."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLdrK5hHI/AAAAAAAAAHY/eU7zX72ZSac/s1600-h/DSC05482.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLdrK5hHI/AAAAAAAAAHY/eU7zX72ZSac/s400/DSC05482.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389765827232367730" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>Here's a close up of the center of the kanga. "Hongera" means "congratulations".</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLdrK5hHI/AAAAAAAAAHY/eU7zX72ZSac/s1600-h/DSC05482.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLd_eGBdI/AAAAAAAAAHg/4xcKjOyxL5Q/s1600-h/DSC05483.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLd_eGBdI/AAAAAAAAAHg/4xcKjOyxL5Q/s400/DSC05483.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389765832681588178" style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div>The saying "Obama Chaguo la Mungu" translates to "Obama-- God's choice."</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHACG6XSEREnwRvfGcuSAPSsG1rLZYuVeyPWdwWggDTq2vWfjdzR_-VYn45lX9H0UUM6mYVAn4jT0bharb8SUJgusMS4HOK7yP6v9aB7iDJWv7cshTgxU057tJw4CDm2kcDri8KX8CA/s320/kanga+hongera+barack+obama.jpg">Here's</a> another version of the Obama kanga. Instead of american flags it has Africa on either side of Obama and the saying says "peace and love. God cares about us."</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLcTHgz9I/AAAAAAAAAHA/Llo364tu3_I/s1600-h/DSC05479.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLcTHgz9I/AAAAAAAAAHA/Llo364tu3_I/s400/DSC05479.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389765803595845586" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>This is the first kanga I bought this year. I mentioned it in the Kipepeo Beach post.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLcTHgz9I/AAAAAAAAAHA/Llo364tu3_I/s1600-h/DSC05479.jpg"></a><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxLc_RAgRI/AAAAAAAAAHI/mnH7S6tPJSg/s400/DSC05480.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389765815446831378" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 200px; " /></div><div>The message "Nakuvika pete yangu uwe mchumba wangu" pretty much translates to "I'm giving you my ring to wear. Be my fiance."</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKqtTDMRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/H2Sluc45TO8/s1600-h/DSC05473.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKqtTDMRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/H2Sluc45TO8/s400/DSC05473.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389764951630098706" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 199px; " /></a></div><div>I must admit that I am falling in love with polka dots. I picked this one up at my local market. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKq6LBrlI/AAAAAAAAAGg/kKNr-_u3B7M/s1600-h/DSC05475.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKq6LBrlI/AAAAAAAAAGg/kKNr-_u3B7M/s400/DSC05475.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389764955086106194" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>The message says "Nyumba yenye upendo haikosi riziki." This translates to, "A house that has love is not missing God's blessings."</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKrsK5eII/AAAAAAAAAGw/UD9NNTBzodY/s1600-h/DSC05477.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKrsK5eII/AAAAAAAAAGw/UD9NNTBzodY/s400/DSC05477.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389764968507340930" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>Besides Obama, I think this is my favorite one so far. I like brown a lot, I think the leaves are really pretty, and I really like the message.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKqtTDMRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/H2Sluc45TO8/s1600-h/DSC05473.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKr11gZ3I/AAAAAAAAAG4/05mRW14TVDI/s1600-h/DSC05478.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKr11gZ3I/AAAAAAAAAG4/05mRW14TVDI/s400/DSC05478.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389764971101972338" style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 224px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The message ("Udugu mzuri mpendane sio mnyanyasane") translates to " A good relationship/kinship is to love each other not harass each other."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Kangas are usually worn like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's Anna Sophia wearing a kanga:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKqtTDMRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/H2Sluc45TO8/s1600-h/DSC05473.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOfoa8gZI/AAAAAAAAAII/3UjGCHsWejE/s1600-h/DSC05488.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOfoa8gZI/AAAAAAAAAII/3UjGCHsWejE/s400/DSC05488.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389769159388987794" style="cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 319px; " /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOfoa8gZI/AAAAAAAAAII/3UjGCHsWejE/s1600-h/DSC05488.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOfdmFSoI/AAAAAAAAAIA/HtdB5jH65Wk/s1600-h/DSC05487.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOfdmFSoI/AAAAAAAAAIA/HtdB5jH65Wk/s400/DSC05487.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389769156482910850" style="cursor: pointer; width: 184px; height: 318px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a picture of me wearing a pair of kangas last year. One around my waist and one on my head:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxwNYIFWhI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/mwpihcLwrrw/s1600-h/brunch+005_2.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxwNYIFWhI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/mwpihcLwrrw/s400/brunch+005_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389806229172607506" style="cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 318px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Kangas are very versatile. Here in Dar a lot of women use them to carry babies like this:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxxHta1TnI/AAAAAAAAAIo/ylLkYvbSxFU/s1600-h/6a01156f3d64c3970b0115710abcb6970c-800wi.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxxHta1TnI/AAAAAAAAAIo/ylLkYvbSxFU/s400/6a01156f3d64c3970b0115710abcb6970c-800wi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389807231320804978" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>or like this:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxxH_XuUKI/AAAAAAAAAIw/PU7fD_7fBLo/s1600-h/kanga2.gif"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxxH_XuUKI/AAAAAAAAAIw/PU7fD_7fBLo/s400/kanga2.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389807236139602082" style="cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 261px; " /></a></div><div>Notice that this woman is also wearing a pair on kangas as clothing, one on the head and one around her waist. In TZ, Muslim women often use kangas as hijabs. I told you they were versatile.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Dresses:</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Here are some dresses I bought. They are long, loose and flowy which makes them quite popular with Muslim women because they in are compliance with the Islamic standards of modesty. Often times they come with another piece of cloth. Muslim women use the extra cloth on their head as a hijab and other women may wear it around the waist or drape it accross the shoulders if they get cold.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOe3SYYOI/AAAAAAAAAH4/NdOoYhDxNXw/s1600-h/DSC05486.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOe3SYYOI/AAAAAAAAAH4/NdOoYhDxNXw/s400/DSC05486.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389769146199728354" style="cursor: pointer; width: 157px; height: 318px; " /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOe3SYYOI/AAAAAAAAAH4/NdOoYhDxNXw/s1600-h/DSC05486.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOejIk68I/AAAAAAAAAHw/VjBuopKFn8g/s1600-h/DSC05485.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOejIk68I/AAAAAAAAAHw/VjBuopKFn8g/s400/DSC05485.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389769140789898178" style="cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 319px; " /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOeYVu9CI/AAAAAAAAAHo/DDIGWZ565gI/s1600-h/DSC05484.jpg"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxOeYVu9CI/AAAAAAAAAHo/DDIGWZ565gI/s400/DSC05484.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389769137892291618" style="cursor: pointer; width: 173px; height: 318px; " /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/SsxKqtTDMRI/AAAAAAAAAGY/H2Sluc45TO8/s1600-h/DSC05473.jpg"></a>This one is my favorite.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Future Purchases:</b></div><div>In TZ, soda still comes in glass bottles like this:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Ssx0ygvyePI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Yda-ww32l8w/s1600-h/TZcoke.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Ssx0ygvyePI/AAAAAAAAAI4/Yda-ww32l8w/s400/TZcoke.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389811265188296946" style="cursor: pointer; width: 104px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>A few of the craftsmen at my local market make really cool earrings out of the caps and I'm looking to invest in a pair of Coca-Cola earrings. When I get my hands on them I'll post a pic. I also plan to post pics of my traditional clothing after I have it made. More purchases and pictures posts to come...</div><div><br /></div><div>-K</div><div><br /></div></div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-69116356758996900702009-10-05T12:44:00.002+03:002009-10-05T13:14:49.739+03:00Three month reflectionsSo, the little ticker in the right hand column has notified me that I am approx. 28% done with this adventure. I'm not exactly sure how to feel about this. I'm stuck somewhere between being glad that I'm that much closer to going home and feeling panicky about how much I still need to see and do in the approx. 72% I have left. I've made a lot friends, broadened my perspective, learned a lot about Tanzania, poverty and disadvantaged populations and life in general. I think I've grown more in the last three months than I ever thought possible. I figured out a lot of things that had been confusing me for a long time and thought of a lot more things that I need to figure out. I've replaced a lot of my old addictions with news ones and but still get pleasure out of a few of the old standbys. I've lost a little weight (okay, a lot of weight) and I've stopped cutting my hair, so the 'fro is on the grow. I'm definitely not the same person that I was when I left. I just turned in my 3 month report to the Princeton in Africa office last week so I thought I'd share a few excerpts:<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:35.45pt;text-indent:-35.45pt;mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">1.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">How have you been spending your free time? What kinds of opportunities are available for socializing in your city/town? </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">There’s a lot to see and do in the city. You can sample Indian, Chinese, Lebanese, Ethiopian and traditional Tanzanian food for fair prices at restaurants throughout the city. There’s also jet-skiing, surfing, snorkeling and fishing in the Indian Ocean. Some of the beaches even offer campsites in case you want to camp out. There are large markets where you can get everything from souvenirs, to fruits and vegetables, to cosmetics. Museums and cultural centers offer information on Tanzania’s history and 125+ ethnic groups. There are several gyms in the city and a yacht club downtown in addition to many bars and nightclubs. Cafes are popular and there are a handful of bookstores (although books are relatively expensive). There are also several Western malls and shopping centers and movie theaters and there’s even an Apple store. There are also tons of language courses and volunteer opportunities. Zanzibar is also about an hour-long flight or 2-3 hour ferry ride away.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', fantasy;font-size:130%;color:#336666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', fantasy;font-size:130%;color:#336666;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:35.45pt;text-indent:-35.45pt;mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman""><span style="mso-list:Ignore">1.<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"">What about your experience thus far has been the most…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span><!--StartFragment--></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:130%;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.55pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">Pleasant?: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.55pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); ">The most pleasant aspect of this experience has been how easy it is to make friends. The local people are very friendly and most of them like foreigners. As long as you are vigilant it can be pretty fun to hang out with local people. It’s a good way to get to see more of the city than just the tourists haunts and you can learn a lot about local culture and share your own culture. I have several close friends that I met while here in Dar.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:1.5in;text-indent:-72.55pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:35.45pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">Frustrating?: </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:35.45pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">I’m finding myself worrying a lot more about my health. Dar is a pretty crowded city, with low standards of cleanliness and non-existent food and drug regulations. Stomach bugs are pretty easy to catch and tuberculosis, swine flu, malaria, and a number of other tropical diseases (including blindness induced by fly-bite and bugs that burrow under your skin) are present. I’m combating this by washing my hands a lot more often (including after taking public transport), taking Vitamin C, and being super vigilant about the places I eat and the quality of the food I consume. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:35.45pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">Petty corruption is also pretty frustrating. Although I haven’t had any direct experience with it, it’s pretty bothersome to know that if I need to be treated at a public hospital or I lose my passport I will probably have to bribe someone to receive service. Also, because bribery is effective many people don’t follow traffic regulations, which results in a huge number of traffic accidents and makes most modes of travel (including walking) a lot more dangerous than in the U.S.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:35.45pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:-.5in;mso-list:l0 level2 lfo1; tab-stops:list 4.5pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">1.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">What are the Top 3 things you miss the most from the US? </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-weight:bold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">The number one thing I miss about the U.S. is the stable, functional infrastructure- meaning good medical care, excellent roads, lack of corruption, social services, rules and regulations such as building codes, zoning laws, FDA, etc. These are things that I never though about or appreciated until I didn’t have them. A lot of Americans complain about these things and I agree that they could use improvement but you come to appreciate them when you live a country where many of these things are non-existent or very inefficient. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); ">The second thing I miss about the U.S. is the general cleanliness. Again, this is another thing you can’t really appreciate until it’s not there.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); ">As for number three I say it’s a tie between fast and reliable internet and all the foods that are unavailable here (including but not limited to cheese, Papa John’s, spaghetti, lasagna, and tacos.) </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:0in;text-indent:0in;mso-list:l0 level2 lfo1; tab-stops:list 4.5pt"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">2.</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">What are the Top 3 things about life in Africa that beat out the US? </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">1. I love that I can get natural, delicious, juicy fruits for extremely cheap prices as compared to the U.S. where a lot of fruits are imported, genetically engineered, or sprayed with pesticides and then sold for ridiculous prices. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">2. I also like that it is so easy to support the local economy. In America you might buy something in the supermarket and then you have no idea what really happens to your money. If you shop in a market here you know that your money is going home to feed a farmer’s family. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">3. The Indian Ocean!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Of course a few "best-of" questions snatched from the PiAf three month report can't really sum up everything I've thought, felt, and experienced in the last three months but for the sake of short, reader friendly posting it'll have to do. 'Til next time...</span></span></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-91818491150756088272009-10-05T11:35:00.004+03:002009-10-05T13:45:54.272+03:00Gosh! When are you going to update your blog?!?I know it's been a ridiculously long time sine I update my blog, but I'm still alive and well. Now that I've reached the quarter way mark, life has become more routine and fewer and fewer things strike me as awe-inspiring and blog worthy, but I do have a few updates.<br /><br /><b>Health</b>. I'm really happy and almost surprised that I've managed to make it 3 whole months with no injuries, illnesses, or other incidents. I've been a tiny bit under the weather twice and both times I got checked for malaria and I was (drumroll please)...NEGATIVE both times. I do sleep under a mosquito net (most nights) and use insect repellant (when I feel like it), but I'm surprised that I've gone three months with no malaria b/c I'm not taking any prophyllaxis. Last summer, when I came to TZ I payed nearly $500 for a three month supply of Malarone only to get malaria after 6 weeks. (And I was way more careful with the whole netting/repellant routine). And the malaria didn't kill me or cause brain damage or any of that. I took four pills, twice a day for three days, felt a little tired and achy and got over it. So this time I decided to save myself some money (and my liver) and just skip the whole prophyllaxis deal. And here I am 5,000 mosquito bites, 3 months, and two negative tests later with no malaria. I feel like throwing a party. The bad news is I'm still a little under the weather so now I'm wondering if I don't have malaria then what do I have? Friends have enjoyed playing "Guess the illness" and have diagnosed me with everything from intestinal worms, to homesickness, to swine flu, to TB, to a UTI (?!??). I'll probably never actually find out since I don't believe in having my blood drawn (ouch!) and blood draws are the primary means of diagnose here in TZ. They just love taking your blood! And the culture is a little different. If you are sick or in pain and you go to the hospital you get NO SYMPATHY. If you complain or show fear at all you get asked "Why are you crying?!?" and told to "Toughen up." So, I'll pass. I'm a little of a wimp when it comes to things like that and somehow I don't think that would mix well with E. African bedside manner. So I'm doubling up on Vitamin C, drinking plenty of water, and hoping it passes. (And yes, for those of you who are wondering, it does perplex me that I paid someone to shove a 14 gauge needle through my tongue but won't tolerate having my blood drawn.)<div><br /></div><div><b>Safety</b>. In my three months I've also managed to avoid being mugged, pick pocketed, raped, or abducted. And I didn't have to become a recluse to avoid these either. Aside from two small incidents (one where I awoke at 1:30 a.m. to the sound of fireworks congratulating the winner of the Miss Tanzania competition and sleepily mistook them for bombs and one where the bus I was riding in had a head on collision with a truck), I haven't faced any serious safety concerns.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Homesickness</b>. Of course it comes and goes but when it comes at least it's not as bad as the initial dose. Strangely enough, t's usually triggered by food. I'll think of a food from home that I really miss and then I'll think of someone I ate that food with or a place where I used to eat that food and then the homesickness rushes in. It's also triggered by talking to people from home. Getting a phone call from home or slipping in a quick AIM convo is usually the bright spot in my day but often leaves me wanting hugs which are, of course, impossible from across an ocean. But, the good news is that three new things have been taking the edge of the homesickness. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>1. New Norwegian Housemates. As I mentioned before, the family I live with often hosts young professionals and students and about three weeks ago we got two more boarders around my age. They're both 19 and they're taking some time off from Development Studies at their university to do some work in the field. They're pretty cool girls and I've already found myself pouring my hearts out to them and exchanging secrets. One of them reminds me a lot of a friend of mine from university (shout outs to E.S. Adams!). So it's nice to have the company of Anglophones within my age groups. Lots of slumber party-ish nights to come!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>2. Video chatting! I've been complaining and complaining about the slow speed and unreliable nature of E. African internet but the other day I found a small internet cafe in my area with really fast internet. I'm talking almost American-fast! On Saturday I had my first video chat with one of my bestest buddies! It was my first time actually SEEING anyone from home since I left in June. When the connection finally went through I almost cried. Seeing her perky little face energized me so much. I can't wait to see everyone else. E-mail me for video chat dates!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>3. *potential* X-mas trip home. I was supposed to get a visit from a friend around Xmas time but now it's looking like it might not happen but I miss home so much that I might explode. So since she most likely won't be able to bring the home to me, I'm thinking of bringing the me to home. I've started googling airfare and pushing around things in my "budget" (yeah right. lol) to see if I can make this trip possible. Even if it's only hypothetical right now it gets me through. If I actually make it home I could stock up on hugs, and comfort food, and magazines and DVDs. Ohhhhh, even the possibility of it makes me want to jump for joy! I am trying not to get my hopes too far up though. We'll see. So far its looking like something between $1,300 and $1,700 (ouch!). Maybe we should start a "Bring Krista Home for the Holidays" fund?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Work</b>. Work is work. It's ok. My bosses give me a fair deal of responsibility and really get a kick out of it when I "take initiative." So far my project have included everything from writing a situational analysis to starting a monthly office newsletter.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's life at the three month mark. I'm still working on taking (and uploading) more pictures. I guess I should sign off with the obligatory promise to update more often ;)</div><div>-K</div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-17920303272330721982009-09-03T11:11:00.043+03:002009-09-03T14:13:11.950+03:00Photo Edition: Home LifeThis post is special because it features lots of photographs! Now that I've discovered a quick and easy way to upload them you guys can expect a lot more of them :~)<div><br /><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp9-jDzYQHI/AAAAAAAAACI/B-oRZ1ats9A/s1600-h/DSC05393.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 270px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp9-jDzYQHI/AAAAAAAAACI/B-oRZ1ats9A/s400/DSC05393.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377155620884988018" /></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp9-jDzYQHI/AAAAAAAAACI/B-oRZ1ats9A/s1600-h/DSC05393.JPG"></a>This is the front of my house.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp9_kWyfRnI/AAAAAAAAACY/E_-3dfvbeBc/s1600-h/DSC05389.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp9_kWyfRnI/AAAAAAAAACY/E_-3dfvbeBc/s400/DSC05389.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377156742673024626" style="cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 270px; " /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp9_kWyfRnI/AAAAAAAAACY/E_-3dfvbeBc/s1600-h/DSC05389.JPG"></a>Another view of my house. Can you see Sia preparing the evening meal inside the gate?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-CWwLXOdI/AAAAAAAAACw/EWEAMQdluCw/s1600-h/DSC05397.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-CWwLXOdI/AAAAAAAAACw/EWEAMQdluCw/s400/DSC05397.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377159807504955858" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>On the inside looking out. </div><div><br /></div><div>The majority of compounds/houses in Tanzania are surrounded by gates or walls and lots of families (including mine) hire security guards. Our gate is puny compared to some of the ones I've seen here. Lots of them feature broken glass or spikes on top to discourage climbing over. The gates are there to ward off thieves but from what I've heard thieves usually stick to pick pocketing and mugging. I've never heard of a home invasion but I guess they figure better safe than sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-HCvgAP4I/AAAAAAAAAC4/6bU4mKUOriE/s1600-h/DSC05396.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-HCvgAP4I/AAAAAAAAAC4/6bU4mKUOriE/s400/DSC05396.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377164961283850114" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div>This is my front door. The flip flops are there because we don't wear shoes inside the house. Alot of the roads in Dar are still dirt which means shoes get pretty dusty and tend to bring home sand. So we usually take them off at the front door, slide into our slippers, and then carry the shoes inside to the shoe area. </div><div>Also, did you peep the bars over the windows? They are a popular feature of TZ architecture. Its another security feature and most windows are fitted with them. Even if you break the glass in the window you still can't get inside. When you're building your house you go to a <i>fundi</i> (artisan/ craftsman) and choose a style and size and have them custom made. (In TZ you buy a plot of land and build a house slowly by hiring specialist for each part. It's not very common to buy existing houses like in the U.S. True, you have to shell out the cost of the plot plus building the entire house, but in the long run you own the house flat out, there's no mortgage, you can pass the house down for generations, and its custom built to your specifications.)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-O9LGIZII/AAAAAAAAADA/lJAKRD_F7O4/s1600-h/DSC05355.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-O9LGIZII/AAAAAAAAADA/lJAKRD_F7O4/s400/DSC05355.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377173661705331842" style="cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 270px; " /></a></div><div>This is Sia, our maid. She's also one of the best friends I've made here in Dar. We chat about everything from child brides, to our own weddings, to our biggest dreams for the future and our pet peeves. Sia just turned 20 last week so it's really fun to have someone my own age around the house to talk to. The only thing is Sia has a long list of chores she must get done everyday and she doesn't get any days off so we can't go to the movies or pal around the city like I would like to. Since I moved in in July I've only seen Sia leave the house once for a quick trip to the barbershop. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sia and I learn a lot from each other. Since she doesn't speak English talking to her improves my Swahili. She always gives me helpful tidbits on TZ etiquette and social customs. I tell Sia all about America and city life. Sia left her village in the north (near the foot of Mt.Kilimanjaro) to work for our family in city only a few months ago. When a TZ villager meets an American city girl it makes for interesting convos like these:</div><div><br /></div><div>I. </div><div>Me: Do you have electricity in your village?</div><div>Sia: Of course. Its just a village. It didn't travel back in time. </div><div><br /></div><div>II. </div><div>Sia: You look like a man today.</div><div>Me: Why?</div><div>Sia. Because you're wearing a shirt and a belt. Why don't you wear a skirt?</div><div>Me: *laughter*</div><div>Sia: But you look very nice though. Attractive. Hurry you'll be late for work. (She pushes me out the door with a hug).</div><div><br /></div><div>III.</div><div>Me: Today I saw someone pulling goats out of the trunk of the bus!</div><div>Sia: And?</div><div>Me: I was surprised! Animals can ride the bus?</div><div>Sia: Of course. The man had to go somewhere so the goats had to go too! He can't leave them at home!</div><div><br /></div><div>IV. </div><div>Sia: I don't like going to the beach because I'm scared of water. </div><div>Me: Why are you scared?</div><div>Sia: The ocean is just so big! Where did all that water come from?</div><div>Me: It's just...there.</div><div>Sia: Where does it end?</div><div>Me: If you find the end of an ocean you'll reach another continent.</div><div>Sia: (Eyes wide) Really? Oh my goodness!</div><div><br /></div><div>V. </div><div>Me: (whistling)</div><div>Sia: Don't whistle. It's for boys. If I didn't have brothers I could whistle but I have a lot so if my mom hears me whistling she hits me with a <i>mwiko </i>(a flat wooden utensil used for cooking. resembles a wooden spoon).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-TO3hi77I/AAAAAAAAADQ/uCBW2BFbnyk/s1600-h/DSC05382.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-TO3hi77I/AAAAAAAAADQ/uCBW2BFbnyk/s400/DSC05382.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377178363735764914" style="cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 270px; " /></a></div><div>Sia prepares most of our meals from absolute scratch. It usually takes her about two hours to cook. Here, she is harvesting the meat of coconuts. Later she pour hot water over the shredded coconut and stir it together, squeezing the submerged shreds. Next, she pours the whole mixture through a strainer and discards the actual coconut. The remaining while liquid will be used to boil our rice. </div><div><br /></div><div>Harvesting the coconut meat is a long and tiring process. First she slams the coconut on the ground to crack them open. Then using a special seat called <i>mbuzi </i>(which also means goat) she manually scraped the inside of the coconut halves until the shell is clean. It usually takes 2-3 coconuts to boil enough rice for dinner. If you look closely under her hip you can see the scraper that removes the meat from the coconut shell.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-U9RO_5bI/AAAAAAAAADY/kxMxWTmmYsA/s1600-h/DSC05383.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-U9RO_5bI/AAAAAAAAADY/kxMxWTmmYsA/s400/DSC05383.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377180260422903218" style="cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 270px; " /></a></div><div>Here's a better shot of the <i>mbuzi </i>(without a person sitting on top). Sia sits on the decorated part with the scraper at her right. She places a bowl under the scraper to catch the fruit and goes to work. When she's done the seat folds up for easy storage. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-XJjNyI-I/AAAAAAAAADg/nHjWWmE8J_k/s1600-h/DSC05402.JPG"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp-XJjNyI-I/AAAAAAAAADg/nHjWWmE8J_k/s400/DSC05402.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377182670431331298" style="cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 270px; " /></a></div><div>Here's a glimpse of Sia working her magic. Here, she's using the modern gas stove, but we do have a traditional charcoal stove which she sometimes cooks with outside. She says the charcoal stove is better for cooking <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ugali">ugali</a>.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>So, that's a glimpse into life around my house! I'm really excited to be able to share pictures now and I'm open to suggestions so if there's anything you wanna see lemme know and I'll do my best to post pics of it!</div><div><br /></div><div>-K</div></div></div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-63129222389937706162009-09-02T12:56:00.008+03:002009-10-05T13:34:56.641+03:00Making Progress<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:19px;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Here I am 72 days, 10 hours, and 38 minutes in and I'm finally getting settled in. I mean, REALLY settled in. Showing up at work every weekday morning has become a comfortable routine, I always remember to jiggle the toilet flush string, and I can tuck my mosquito net in under 30 seconds.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span></span>I used to spend my evenings alone in my room reading or playing computer games, but now I lean lazily on the kitchen counter chatting in Swahili with Sia (our maid) as she prepares the evening meal, or play games with my young "sister" and her friends.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span></span>I've reduced the nighttime awakenings to once per night, usually an hour before my alarm. Now that I'm sleeping through the 5 am muslim prayers and the roosters, I'm almost sleeping through the whole night.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span></span>The gekkos still scatter when I pull back the curtains but I'm cool with that as long as they make a beeline to hide behind the dresser. I've realized that we have a common goal-- avoiding each other.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span></span>I've learned to time my bathing with the on/off schedule of the water heater so that 9 times out of 10 my water is hot.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><span></span>I'm no longer ashamed of my American accent and have begun speaking Swahili around the office even though all of my co-workers know English.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Of course, all of these are legitimate measurements of progress but my favorite is the change in my reaction to what i like to call TZ's "biodiversity". (This is an umbrella category including but not limited to the chickens/roosters/guinea fowl walking the streets, stray dogs, homeless cats that beg for food, monkeys that steal from clotheslines, mongooses that hang out at the trash dump, and bush babies that scream and chuckle in the night.)</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Case Study: Flying Cockroaches</span></span></span></span></span><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp5Cf6XVg7I/AAAAAAAAACA/RsfPgdzbHvU/s1600-h/Dead+cockroaches.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 194px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp5Cf6XVg7I/AAAAAAAAACA/RsfPgdzbHvU/s320/Dead+cockroaches.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376808121137464242" /></span></span></span></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sp5Cf6XVg7I/AAAAAAAAACA/RsfPgdzbHvU/s1600-h/Dead+cockroaches.jpg"></a>Just in case you weren't sure, you're looking at the underbelly of several dead, </span></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">3 in. long</span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">, </span></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">FLYING</span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> cockroaches. Did I mention that these bad boys fly? </span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">The first I time I saw one of these I screamed and then shivered as I watched it scurry under my bed never to be seen again. Later that night I lay awake in bed listening out for the sound of wings. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Flying Roaches: 1, Krista: 0 </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">The second time I saw one, I stood on a chair with a shoe trying to kill it for 45 minutes before enlisting the help of the security guard who killed it in about 12.5 seconds. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Flying Roaches: 2, Krista: still 0</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">The third time I faced one I was called in as back up when the study abroad student in the bedroom next door spotted it chilling on her mosquito net. It took a team effort but we were able to knock it to the floor and squish it. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Flying Roaches: 2, Krista: 1</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">In the most recent incident, I was lying on my bed reading a book when I heard a strange buzzing sound. I looked up and saw a translucent, brownish flutter tracing circles on the ceiling. Fifteen seconds later it was keeled over on is back looking rather like the picture above, and I was standing over it holding the smoking flip flop. No assistance necessary. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">Flying Roaches: 2, Krista: 2</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;">If that's not progress I don't know what is!</span></span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;font-size:16.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-44758647579459646622009-08-20T09:30:00.005+03:002009-08-21T08:41:00.238+03:00Inatosha<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Baskerville;font-size:medium;"><span class="hwGrp"><span priority="2" dhw="1" class="hw" style=" ;font-size:24px;">grat<span class="hsb"></span>i<span class="hsb"></span>tude</span><span class="pronGrp"><span pr="US" type="US" class="pr" style=" ;font-family:HiraMinPro-W3;"> |ˈgratəˌt(y)oōd|</span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; "><span class="prelim"><span ps="1" class="ps" style="font-weight: normal; "><span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">noun</span></span></span><span abs="1" class="sense" style="display: block; "><span class="def" style="font-weight: normal; "><span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">the</span> <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">quality</span> of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">kindness</span></span></span></span></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I think I first started being consciously grateful for things in my life in December of 2004. That's when I found out I got into Princeton. I danced a little jig and uttered a little prayer of thanks. And again when my brother's epilepsy did not come with brain damage, when my parents did not lose their jobs in recession-induced cutbacks, when the gun on campus turned out to be some kind of twisted joke. <i>Thank you, God</i>. Then I learned to be grateful for smaller things. A phone call from Mom, a skinny little brother to tickle and kiss you, a step-father who adopts you and never makes you feel like the odd one out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Growing up my family was never "rich" by American standards, but we always had more than enough. I'm embarrassed that it took me so long to understand how truly little a person can live on. I remember yanking open my closet as an angsty preteen and taking an hour to scatter my entire wardrobe over the bed and floor before declaring that I had "nothing to wear" when the clothes hanging from the ceiling fan should have been evidence to the contrary. </div><div>And, although I never had the kind of mom who would coerce me into eating vegetables by reminding me of starving African children, I would sit transfixed in front of Save the Children infomercials afraid to change the channel for fear that it would mean I was a bad person. I would always swear to myself that if only we could afford it I would tell my mom to send money to those poor kids. If only I knew how much we could spare.</div><div><br /></div><div>So now I sit around the dinner table with the family I live with and the parents encourage me to eat more and more. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Put more, Nia! Put more," they say when I couldn't possibly swallow another grain of rice. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"<i>Inatosha</i>," I tell them. (It is enough/sufficient.)</div><div>I stare at the mounds of rice and chicken piled in front of me and I feel my heart quicken w/gratitude and then grow heavy with guilt. </div><div>In each fit of induced gratitude for material things the arrogance of pity for those who do not have and the selfishness of "Thank God it's not me" are always implicit no matter how aware of them you are and no matter how hard you try to beat them back. </div><div>And while I do believe that there is something to be said for sympathizing with the plight of others, true <i>empathy </i>can only come from shared experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I've decided to fast. And although I know that voluntary refusal of food does not come close to involuntary starvation, maybe sitting in quiet council with my stomach rumblings will help me complain a little less and share a little more. Maybe it will help me reach a truer level of gratitude, one that is not relative. Maybe it will help me reverse the 20 years of American media that taught me that to spend and to have and to be surrounded by luxury is to be happy. Maybe it will help me more closely differentiate between what I <i>need</i> and what I <i>want</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm doing it because working with orphans and confusing lack of excess with genuine lack are incompatible. Because I'm still navigating the guilt of having so much more than I need. Because I curse the moments when I feel it is still not enough. Because it will bring me face to face with the things I am working to change.</div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-85469893328453606772009-07-28T14:36:00.004+03:002009-07-28T16:19:01.903+03:00Reading is Fundamental!I was an only child for 13 years. <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>What this means is that I often had to find a way to entertain myself that did not require the presence of another person. (With the exception of cousin-visit days) this pretty much ruled out board games and even simple outside games like hopscotch and tag. I enjoyed my fair share of television, swingsets and solo jumprope, but my most beloved independent pastime was reading. By age 7 I had already become a bona fide bookworm. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I would often fight the weight of my eyelids, reading late into the night. I would finish assignments early and sneak peeks at Goosebumps books under my desk at school. At night in the car I would hold my book up in the back seat trying to make out the next paragraph in the headlights of the cars behind us. Anytime I earned a reward I would ask for the next book in whatever series I was reading. The book fair was my favorite day at school. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>My love for reading was unhealthily intense. I would carry books with me into the bathroom, using one hand to assist with the process of doing my business and other to hold the book in front of my face. On weeknights I would cry if we pulled into the library parking lot only to find that it had closed 5 minutes earlier. On weekends I would wake up, roll over, put my glasses on and start reading. I had to be reminded to get dressed, bathe, eat.</div><div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>High school all but ended my obsessive love affair with reading. Back then I would much rather spend my time cultivating my social life than reading. My primary interests switched to spending every waking moment on the phone, cheerleading practice and going to all my boyfriend's football games. Although there were a few rare moments of voluntarily reading, the majority of my literary intake resulted from AP English assignments.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When I graduated, effectively breaking the "American teenager spell", I began to miss the mother-daughter trips to library that I begged for as a child. I would walk past Border's and bestsellers would wave to me from the storefront like neglected old friends. But then I started Princeton and I was assigned so much reading that my hands were constantly covered in paper cuts from turning pages all the time. I could barely finish all the required reading, much less fit in a word I actually <i>wanted</i> to read. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Now that Princeton Univeristy is shrinking in my rearview mirror I'm readjusting to the concept of free time. I don't know if I can ever make up for the way I discarded such a dear old mate who kept me company through many a childhood hour, but I'm attempting to mend the fences by indiscriminately reading anything I can get my hands on and discussing it with anyone who will listen. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When I packed my life into two suitcases I made space for seven books despite Ethiopian Air's ridiculous weight limit. This is not nearly enough to tide me over for a year but I'm working on amassing a small collection. Books are super expensive in TZ but I hope to trade, borrow, barter and generally wheel and deal myself into some new additions. So far I've been given a Ralph Ellison novel by a friend who is putting her luggage on a diet and I've been loaned the autobiography of a British comedian by a friend who hasn't found the time to read it yet. One of the Princeton kids has a copy of "Lolita" and I wish I could buy it off her but she hasn't finished reading it yet and they're all leaving at the end of this week. I've been wanting to read that book for years and I kept putting it off. Good luck finding a copy of "Lolita" in East Africa. Nonetheless, I am excited about the books that I do have, but I'm torn between devouring them voraciously and savoring them slowly. After all, I do have to make them last for a year.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Anyway, I've decided that the quest to rekindle my love affair with reading is important enough to deserve it's own space on the page so I've added a little box on the right where I will list all the books I read this year. Here's to hoping the list grows quite lengthy.</div><div><br /></div><div>-K</div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-37716452132772523872009-07-27T12:21:00.004+03:002009-07-27T12:55:30.280+03:00Adventures on Public Transportation Volume IV. "The Cheater"<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="mso-list:none;tab-stops:.5in">Every evening I take a bus and a <a href="http://www.globalpublisherstz.com/uploads/posts/thumbs/1213191534_3.jpg">dala dala</a> to get home from work and this day was no different. After work I followed the winding dirt road to my bus stop and waited for the bus that I already knew would be full. When the bus pulls up I shove my way as far in as possible but still end up with half my body hanging out of the open doorway. I notice the conductor staring at me and see the glint of recognition is his eyes. Something about my appearance has tipped him off that I am a foreigner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The driver pulls off and I squint my eyes against the smoggy breeze and watch the city roll by. A few stops later enough people have gotten off for me find an empty seat. I plant my feet and wiggle my buttocks into the narrow space between the wide hips of two Mamas. The conductor informs us that it’s time to pay up, by way of his usual method of making kissy noises and jingling change at the passengers and we begin to dig in purses and shirt pockets looking for busfare. The conductor shakes his handful of change at each passenger one at a time. I watch as each person pays their 250 Tshs and get change if necessary. When he gets to me I hand him a 500 Tshs note because I haven’t got anything smaller. He hands me back a single coin worth 200 Tshs. I wait patiently for my other 50 Tshs. </p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="mso-list:none;tab-stops:.5in">The conductor continues to collect the fare from the other passengers and I watch his hand, counting at least five 50 Tshs pieces. Wondering why I haven’t received all the change due to me I get the conductor's attention and tell him, “Bado hamsini.” (You still owe me 50 shillings.) He turns and goes back to collecting change from the other passengers. When I repeat myself loudly he pretends not to hear. </p><p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="mso-list:none;tab-stops:.5in">I put two and two together and realize I am being cheated. The conductors thinks that he can take advantage of me because I am foreign. I don’t know if he thinks I don’t know the cost of a bus ride, or that I won’t recognize I’ve been shorted on my change but anger bubbles up my back and steams out of my collar. I’ve had a long day at work and it’s already been an exercise in patience to try to keep my mood even while cramming myself into an overcrowded bus that offers the scent of body odor instead of air conditioning. I am not in the mood for bull shit. My mind races as I try to decide what to do and I vow to myself to get the rest of my change. The coin is only worth about three American cents but I will not be taken advantage of. I know the other people won’t understand why I’m making a fuss over 50 shillings, so I decide to wait until we pull into the station at the end of the line and everyone clears out, then I’ll confront the guy. When we reach the station my legs wobble with anger when I stand up to crawl out of the bus. When the other passengers have cleared I decide on complete aggression, set my jaw and approach the conductor demanding,“Nipe hamsini yangu.” (Give my my 50 shillings)</p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:0in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:0in">“Sina” he lies. (I don’t have it.)</p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:0in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:0in">“Mwongo!” I accuse (liar!)</p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:0in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:0in">He reaches into his pocket and shows me a handful of coins in an attempt to “prove” his lie, but I spot a 50 shilling piece and plunge my hand into the pile of coins. I snatch the coin from him and shove it in his face. </p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:0in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:0in">“Asante” I say sarcastically. (Thank you). He is rude enough to laugh at my anger.</p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left:0in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:0in"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpLast" style="margin-left:0in;mso-add-space:auto; text-indent:0in">I am taller than him and I stand there for a second staring him dead in the eye. I let him feel the anger radiating off my form and hope that he has the decency to be ashamed. I look him over from head to toe and shake my head at the sight of him before I walk away. I am still angry as I blow past the men trying to sell me second hand clothing and look for my connecting bus, but I am proud of myself for speaking up. I sigh. It's going to be a long year.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-21583802746419371972009-07-27T09:40:00.007+03:002009-07-27T13:29:26.564+03:00Kipepeo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sm2AZx5JZuI/AAAAAAAAABQ/uv0-h8OReaM/s1600-h/DSC05338.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B332khgpmBI/Sm2AZx5JZuI/AAAAAAAAABQ/uv0-h8OReaM/s320/DSC05338.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363083911646242530" /></a><br />I am slightly ashamed that it has taken me so long to get to the beach. I've been in TZ for about a month now and I took my first trip to the beach yesterday. I went to Kipepeo Beach in Kigamboni for the first time and had an unbelievable day. <div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div>The sun was on duty, the breeze was pleasant and the Indian Ocean was as blue and beautiful as always. Seeing it again felt like visiting an old friend. The shore was full of an interesting mix of tourists and local people and it was definitely alive but not annoyingly overcrowded. Within minutes of arriving we witnessed two local men herding their cattle across the beach. I got quite a kick out of seeing cows on the beach so we took a few pictures. After the cows blew through we decided to move down the beach to get closer to the music coming from the bungalows and bars linked across the shore. Marnie and I stripped off our clothes, spread out our <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kanga_(African_garment)">kangas</a> and kitenges and settled down in the sand. It wasn't long before we made a friend. </div><div><br /></div><div>She asked us to watch her things while she went for a swim. When she got back we discovered she lived in Mozambique doing humanitarian work but was originally from Brazil. She was about 30 years old and had a charming Portugese accent. The three of us had ice cream and chatted about Brazil, TZ, and life in general. I finally got tired of squinting and flagged down a man selling straw hats. I've always been weary of wide brim hats b/c I've always felt like they're for moms, but my face was beginning to hurt from being squenched up and the sunglasses seller was nowhere in sight. I shelled out 3,000 Tshs for a straw hat that Marnie described as "Amish style". To my surprise I felt cool with it on. The hat man was also selling <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kanga_(African_garment)">kangas</a>, so Angela and I began to search through them for good saying and patterns. I chose a blue and yellow zig zag striped one with a black polka dot border (busy! I know) that read "Nakuvika pete yangu, uwe mchumba wangu." (I'm giving you my ring to wear, be my fiancee." Angela settled on a green and black one that reminded her to never undertake difficult tasks alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Angela shared with me a bit of local wisdom she had picked up- the person may think he chooses the kanga, but really the kanga chooses the person. The message we get on our kanga is the one we need at the moment. We were evaluating our own kanga choices when a man approaches riding the infamous camel. I had heard the tales of 2,000 shilling camel rides at Kipepeo beach and I had long ago decided that if I saw the camel I would indeed ride it. I almost melted into the sand with excitement when the camel actually materialized. I stayed with our stuff and snapped pictures while Marnie rode first, then I climbed up into the damp saddle settled atop the camel's hump for my turn. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Shika vizuri!" (Hold on tight!) the camel man told me and I saw why when the camel stood up pitching my body at a sharp 45 degree angle. After the initial effort of hoisting itself up, the camel strolled up and down the shore and looked out at the people littering the beach. Small children offered the camel ice cream cones and adults stared like I had lost my last shard of common sense. I just held onto the Amish hat with one hand and grinned until I thought my cheeks would crack into pieces and fall off.</div><div><br /></div><div>We were supposed to be meeting a group of the Princeton kids there but one of them had stepped on a sea urchin and been rushed to the hospital before we arrived. Consequently, Marnie and I had decided against venturing into the water, but after chatting with Angela about the Brazilian goddess of the sea and the healing powers of the ocean, I decided a dip in the warm, salty water might be exactly what I needed. Keeping an eye out for sea urchins and jellyfish, I waded in up to my ankles hoping it would be enough to cleanse my soul. I stood there soaking in the rush of the ocean, the tide sucking my feet into the sand, the sun warming my skin and the laughter and music carrying on the breeze and I couldn't resist going out farther. Sea urchins or no sea urchins I went in up to my neck and in a few minutes I was surrounded by a friendly circle of local people wanting to know where I was from and what I was doing in Dar es Salaam. Before I knew it I had a local girl holding each of my hands (a sign of friendship) and asking for my phone number. I just smiled and chatted away in swahili, bobbing up and down in the ocean and watching the sun settle lower in the sky.</div><div><br /></div><div>After drying off on the shore and exchanging numbers with all my new friends it was time to go. Angela, Marnie and I piled into the back of a <a href="http://www.skylineaviation.co.uk/buses/tuktuk.jpg">Bajaj</a> and headed back to the ferry. At home I stuffed myself with good food, chatted about the sea urchin mishap, washed the sand out of my crannies and tucked my drowsy little self under my mosquito net to dream about floating in the indian ocean with a camel.</div><div><br /></div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-552241123146306932009-07-22T16:05:00.002+03:002009-07-22T16:12:56.769+03:00On the second day give him a hoe...There's a swahili saying that says "A visitor is a guest only on the first day, but on the second day give him a hoe (no, not a ho'). <div><br /></div><div>I was coasting along at work for the first two weeks, spending all my time sucking up the bandwidth on my office's internet connection, but then I had a meeting to "define my scope of work and come up with a viable work plan". It turns out this really meant "bury me under a hefty to-do list."</div><div><br /></div><div> All of this to say I love and miss you guys and promise to update very soon...</div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-56924460561307572932009-07-13T09:37:00.004+03:002009-07-13T12:00:16.256+03:00Dodoma Cont...<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Day 2- Driving to Kondoa</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">After hours of meandering through the African desert, I am amazed when we pull up in front on New Dodoma Hotel. There’s a restaurant and fountain and the rooms even have television. Later I let out a sigh of relief when I realize my bathroom not only has indoor plumbing and running water, but hot water at that! I awake bright and early the next morning and sidle on down to breakfast in the hotel restaurant. I stand in the doorway looking for the program manager or the finance manager, or even the driver. When I don’t see them I turn around and go to look for them elsewhere. I stop short when I feel a hand on my elbow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Why you leave?” the driver says to me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I didn’t see you guys.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“We there,” he points to the gingham covered table in the corner. “You sit here.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I wonder why I’m sitting by myself instead of at the table with the three of them, but not wanting to be a burden, I put my things down quietly and head to the buffet. I decide that baked bean, ambiguous meat, and soup are too heavy for breakfast. Instead I choose two slices of bread with jam, a couple slices of pineapple, and a banana. (I stopped being a “breakfast person” when my Mom stopped making it for me around middle school age.) I sit by myself balling my bread into little misshapen spheres and stealing furtive glances at the men’s table. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><o:p> .<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">We arrive at the Dodoma C.O.P.E office an hour behind schedule. That is, of course, right on time in Swahili time. We cram into a small office with too many desks and begin the introductions. When it gets to me I stand and clear my throat, “Hi. I’m Krista. I’m an intern working with Africare for a year. I’ll be documenting the implementation of the COPE project.” The room falls silent. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I’m American,” I explain. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Ooooooh,” they exclaim. “You not Tanzania person. Your family from Malawi?” I get this a lot. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“For Krista’s benefit we will conduct this meeting in English,” the program manager chimes in. I am halfway grateful that I won’t have to juggle both understanding Swahili and filling the gaps in my knowledge about the COPE project. But I am irritated at the program manager for underestimating my Swahili. Uneasy glances fly around the room. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“We have come to check on the shortcomings of the project,” the program manager says in his thick African accent.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Ok. Let us begin,” someone in the office replies. They discuss the project for 15 minutes in broken English supplemented with Swahili, until finally they tire of the effort it takes to remember the English they learned in secondary school and revert to Swahili. I don’t have the vocabulary to follow a Swahili conversation about “income generating activities”, “sub-grantees”, and “micro-lending” so I withdraw any possibility of contributing to the conversation and sit quietly doodling in my Croxley South African notebook. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>When I develop a headache halfway through the meeting, I give up doodling and switch to counting my mosquito bites and wonder if I’ve contracted malaria already. Thirteen. Hmm. Note to self: keep an eye out for other symptoms and buy Panadol for headache.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">After a three-hour drive we’ve arrived in Kondoa, the rural town where we will gauge our project’s impact on the villages. Although it’s only 4 p.m., the program manager tells me it’s too late to venture into the bush. We’ll have to pass the evening at the hotel and go early tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We look around for a way to pass the time in the small, rural town. Cow tipping crosses my mind, but we settle on drinking sodas from tall glass bottles and talking in the small diner near the hotel. Well, they talk. I sit idly nearby. Finally, I grow tired of staring into space and excuse myself and go to retrieve a novel from my room. When I return dusk is settling and I am thankful for the flashlight function on my phone. I point it at the page and hunch over the Jodi Picoult novel. I am so into the novel that I barely hear the program manager calling my name a few hours later.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Did you bring another novel with you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yeah. I brought one other.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Please don’t ask to borrow it.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“May I borrow it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">No. </i>“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The thing is, I don’t know if this guy is a borrower-non-returner and it is very important that I get my books back. Each one of the books I have was given to me by someone special. Each of them represents a piece of my heart left stateside. They are inscribed and given in love. The one he is asking to borrow is the most special because my mother loaned it to me. I promised I would bring it back in good condition. With a heavy heart, I trudge to my room and retrieve “The Number One Lady’s Detective Agency.” I return to the diner and hand it to him hoping that he won’t break the spine or smear ugali on its pages. He places the book on the table and continues chatting. When I finish “My Sister’s Keeper” I look up and notice he’s barely passed page five.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Let’s trade,” I suggest. He hands the book over. Inside I let out a sigh of relief and I slide the other book across the table. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I think I’m going to retire for the night,” he says. I watch longingly as he tucks the book under his arm and saunters out of the diner. I say a little silent prayer that I won’t have to hunt him down to get it back. Something tells me I will.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Day 3- “It takes a Village…”</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Our convoy jiggles over the crude, rocky path until the first white truck turns off onto an even more ragged “road”. Dusty children clad in mere rags appear beyond my window. My heart leaps a little. When the truck stops I climb out and approach the children. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Shikamoo,” they great me. (Respectful greetings, Elder.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Marahaba,” I reply. (Thank you for the respectful greeting, young ones.) </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I turn at the sound of footsteps on the dry leaves and see a tiny woman about my mother’s age emerging from a crude structure made of sticks and wild grasses. A young child clambers about the spot where I know her knees must lie under the torn and poorly mended wrapper.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Shikamoo, Mama,” I pass the greeting to her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Marahaba,” she replies. One sooty eyelid peeks from behind her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>She and the program manager exchange words and she gestures for us to follow her. We walk around the back of the hut and she points to a small lean-to. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Karibu. Ingia.” (You are welcome. Enter.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m easily the tallest person amongst us and I have to curve my spine severely to fit under the porous roof. I hear strange noises and when my eyes adjust to the dim haze I see I’ve been ushered into the village chicken coup. The Mama explains that the family has used the resources they’ve received from COPE to start a small chicken farm. She shepherds us into an even smaller section of the structure and points to a spot under a makeshift bench. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Nini?,” I ask her. (What?) She clasps her hands under her chin and grins ear to ear. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Mayai,” she tells me proudly. (Eggs). I light the flashlight on my phone and sure enough there are nine ivory eggs perched in a delicate pyramid. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer of gratitude and when I open them again, they threaten to spill over. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-70098987223641085732009-07-08T11:45:00.008+03:002009-07-13T09:32:53.878+03:00HUUUUGE update! Part III<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>III. Dodoma </b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">On Monday I showed up at my office ready to begin my first workweek. Within half an hour of my arrival I was told that I would be accompanying a program manager and a finance manager on a trip to the field. They were checking up on some projects and they thought it would be a good idea for me to tag along and witness the actual impact of all that bureaucracy and grant writing. I admit that I was worried when I realized we were headed to a rural area, but I figured that even if the trip was terrible it would be better than being alone with my thoughts (especially when those thoughts were becoming increasingly negative.)</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">On Tuesday I showed up to work at 8 a.m. with my big black duffel packed full of comfortable clothing and hand sanitizer and sat patiently at my desk waiting for our 9 a.m. take off time to roll around. Of course, since I’m in Africa, 9 o’clock came and went w/out so much as a mention of the trip. After my third cup of chai maziwa (tea w/milk) I decided to venture out of my “office” to find out what was going on. I ran into the program manager and he explained that the company car we were taking was having some trouble and had been taken to the garage by the driver. The program director directed me to the finance office where I was told to sign on the dotted line and handed 340,000 Tshs (Tanzanian Shillings) for accommodations and sundries. By 1 o’clock I was strapped into the front seat of the company’s Land Cruiser next to Jamaal, our driver. Because the steering wheel is on the right, I’m sitting on the left and I can’t get used to it.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Vignettes from the field</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Day 1- Driving to Dodoma</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">As we get farther and farther away from the familiar parts of the city, my mind begins to race. I imagine every what-if scenario possible. I ask my co-workers to describe Dodoma. It’s between 6-8 hours away they tell me and since it’s a desert its very cold there. To my American mind this makes no since. Cold in a desert? “Just wait. You’ll see,” they say. I wonder if the clothing I packed will be warm enough. I close my eyes and sit back in the seat. I pray that we won’t stay in some unrefined bush hotel with no electricity or water. The program manager takes a break from chattering in Swahili to address me in English and it’s like he read my mind when he says, “You look worried. Don’t worry. We’re not going to sleep under a tree.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">When we get out of the congested heart of the city Jamaal takes us up to 140 km/h (87 mph) and the car falls into a comfortable silence. We begin to brake when we come up on a tractor trailer moving so slowly that it seems to be sleepwalking. Jamaal eases the car to the right, closer to the double yellow lines separating us from oncoming traffic. Then driving on the wrong side of the road we pass the truck. No one else in the car seems surprised and I realize that this is normal TZ driving. Passing on the wrong side of the road. Ok, cool. I get used to it and it’s a good thing too, b/c we do a lot of it in the days to come.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Have you eaten lunch?” the program manager asks me from the backseat. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“No”, I answer. I hadn’t eaten anything that day except for the three cups of tea I had in the office. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Would you like us to stop for food?” he follows up. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“No”, I repeat. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Are you sure? It’s not a problem.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I’m okay. I’m just not hungry,” I say. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I look at the driver for help, but he just stares straight ahead, driving on the wrong side of the road. The program manager gives up and sits back in his seat. The air conditioner in the car is not working, and between the moist heat building up and the men’s steady stream of Swahili I begin to nod off. I’m sleeping lightly with my novel dangling from my hand when the program manager frantically shakes me awake shoving a package of cookies into the front seat. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“You must be so hungry. We can’t have you fainting on us. Here eat this biscuit. I’m a medical doctor. You must eat.” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I start to explain that I was only sleeping but I think better of it and stuff a cookie into my mouth. When we stop at a roadside market thirty minutes later he buys me a Coke with Arabic writing on the can. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“Drink this. It’ll bring your blood sugar up.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>My blood sugar is just fine, but I comply.</p><p class="MsoNormal">.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">When I look up again I find that the sights of the city have given way to the wonderous pinks and oranges of an African sunset. The roadside vendors have been replaced with women carrying babies tied to their backs with colorful kangas and kitenges. The women are weighted to the ground with buckets piled three high, bundles of firewood, and tubs full of fresh fruits and vegetables for sale. Dusty old men wheel bicycles topped with oranges, or mountains of foam padding, or muslim women riding side saddle with their hijabs blowing in the wind. Beyond the foot traffic at the edge of road, blurred fields of wild sunflowers, tobacco crops and baobab trees roll by. I remember that they told me Dodoma is cold and I glance at the thermometer on the dashboard. The outside temperature has dropped from 35degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit) in the city to 25 (77 Fahrenheit) and I wonder how much further it will go. The program manager pipes up again. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Have you ever been to Tanzania before,” he asks. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Yeah. I spent two months is Dar last summer,” I reply.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Do you speak Swahili?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“ A little. I studied it for five semesters. I can get around the city by myself.” I tell him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Do you understand what we’re saying in the car?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Parts of it,” I say. “You guys are speaking really fast.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Have you traveled around Tanzania a lot?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I’ve only been to Dar, Morogoro, and Zanzibar,” I answer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“That’s not a lot. You must have a really hard time not knowing anything about the country,” he tells me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He pauses then adds, “I don’t envy you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">His comment reeks of complacency. If you don’t envy me, brother, you’re cracked. This is the biggest adventure of my life. I’m living independently in a country I really love—a place with such a rich culture and a deep history. Every day is a mystery and the novelty never wears off. I might be feeling my way around in the dark but I’m hardly afraid, and the light that does seep in is beautiful.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Doesn't he ever get that restless feeling that sneaks up on me? Doesn't he ever feel like he's in a cage that's a little too small?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Have you ever been to the U.S.,” I ask. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“No.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Aren’t you curious about the rest of the world?,” I try again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“No.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">No, then. I suppose he doesn't.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><b>TO BE CONTINUED..</b></p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-54592757989686189002009-07-08T11:29:00.005+03:002009-07-13T09:36:42.973+03:00HUUUUGE update! Part II<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>II. Adventures on public transportation:</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><b>Volume I. “The Crotch” </b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">On Sunday I took the bus from my house in Msasani to visit the family I’ll be staying with over by the University of Dar. A male co-worker went with me. It started off innocently enough. Since I live at the end of the bus line the bus was empty when my friend and I got on, but after a few stops it became sardine-can full. My friend was sitting with the window on his right and me on his left side. I had my friend on my right side and the aisle on my left. As the bus became more crowded people began to stand in the aisle and hold on the bars overhead. The bus stops at Namanga and even more people get on. A man standing in the aisle shifts closer to me to make room for the other passengers, effectively positioning his waist/ crotch area about a foot away from my head. I tell myself that he can’t help it b/c the bus is crowded, but still I turn my head and look across my friend and out the window so that I won’t have to stare at this guys crotch for the whole ride. Then it happens. Even though no one else gets on the bus the guy shifts so that his hip is touching my shoulder, then—no lie—he takes a step to his left and pushes his pelvis forward so that his penis is in FULL CONTACT with my arm. No bullshit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>So I’m squirming and shifting in my seat trying to get away from this man, but since the bus is already like safety hazard full there’s not really anywhere for me to go. My friend asks what’s wrong but English is not his first language so whispering discreetly is out of the question and I’m not about to inform the whole bus that this man has his junk on my arm. After about 3 min of trying unsuccessfully to maneuver myself into a less offensive position, I start to realize that this is no unfortunate result of overcrowding. This man is purposely rubbing his penis on my arm. Great, just great. So I turn to face the guy’s crotch then look up and try to make eye contact. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Samahani, Bwana,” I say quietly, “Unaweza kusogea kidogo?” (Excuse me, Sir. Can you move a little bit?)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He looks down at me, and then right back out the window without answering. I’m trying to think of the Swahili word for “penis” so that I can ask my male friend to intervene when the bus stops and “penis guy” shimmies out and walks off into the dust cloud surrounding the bus. I am left sitting there, next to my clueless friend, fuming at the audacity of this man.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Volume II. “The Baby” </b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">On the same day, on the same bus, a few stops later, more people get on. (What’s new, right?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The door closes, and a guy in his mid twenties, with a toddler loosely slung over his right hip runs along side the bus, which by this time has begun to pull away from the stop. The conductor opens the door and several sets of African socialist hands grab onto the man’s clothing and hoist him and the baby into the bus. The man is able to wiggle himself into a space large enough for him to place at least one foot on the floor of the bus and with one hand holding on to the overhead bar and one arm supporting the shy toddler, the man looks around the bus. His gaze falls on me and he says, “Eti, dada. Chukua mtoto, eh?” (Say, sister. Would you mind holding my baby?) I take so long to reply that my friend thinks I’ve failed to understand this man’s Swahili. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“He say he need you to hold baby”, he translates for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Looking at the man standing on the tippy toes of one foot and struggling not to spill the toddler, my sympathy mechanism kicks in and I shift my own things to my friends lap and reply, “Haina shida. Unimpe.” (No problem. Give him to me). He swings the toddler down by one arm and I catch him in the ample skirt of my dress. His curly hair tickles my nose and even though-- judging by his size-- he must be old enough to walk and talk by now, he stills smells of delicate baby. I can’t help but cradle the child to my chest. At first his abs tighten in resistance, but then he nestles into my embrace and lazily slips a pudgy little arm around my waist. He locks his big brown eyes on mine. My heart bubbles up and spills over like a shaken soda. I feel my feminist motherhood-is-a-patriarchal-ploy-to-keep-women-subordinate ideologies breaking down, and just as I’m thinking that maybe I will have babies of my own (somewhere is the very distant future), the kid burst out crying. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Baba? Baba?” (Dad? Dad?) </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He turns the brown eyes to his dad and stretches both of his fleshy little arms upwards. Although the dad is wobbling around the bus like gelatin, his eyes go all soft and sympathetic and he swoops the kid out of my lap onto his bony hip and just like that my wrinkly, slightly sweaty lap is empty. As if I don’t feel guilty enough for sneaking cuddles off someone else’s kid the toddler creases his brow and stuffs his thumb in his mouth, locking his eyes on me in an accusatory glare. As punishment for the non-consensual snuggle I must endure the kid’s stare all the way to the Mwenge bus station. I guess “no” really does mean “no”, —even if he acts like he wants it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Volume III. “Walking”</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Today I walked home from work. I walked until I felt pain the size of oranges glowing in my joints, and then I walked some more. Enough coins to pay bus fare five times tinkled in my pocket but I didn’t flag down any of the buses speeding by. It was a slow wandering gait. I took me nearly an hour to get home. The secret to walking along the bumpy, sandy, dirt roads of Africa is in the hips. After stumbling several times I look around me and begin to imitate the lazy but graceful walk of TZ ladies. You have to not need your knees so much. Pull the weight from your ankles up to your waist and let the gentle rocking of your hips swing your long legs out in front of you. Swish yourself right over the pitiful road.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>“I’m sorry,” the road says if you listen closely. “I’m sorry for the sand and pebbles in your shoes and my broken places where you stumble. I’m sorry, Sister, to add to your load.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I feel sorry for the road. It serves as a path, bed, table, waste receptacle, and seat to every passerby. No wonder it is worn and crumbling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When the men start to call after me I know it is time to shake the clouds out of my hair and quicken my pace. I don’t exactly know the way but I just keep looking for the buses coming from Msasani and sure enough I reach the corner with the big sign for the Irish Pub.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I unlock the door to my room, sit on the bed and fold my feet under me on the white sheet. I look down at my feet swathed in thick dust and sigh. At least I’ll sleep well tonight.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-17076271846041945542009-07-08T11:18:00.010+03:002009-07-27T13:24:39.775+03:00HUUUUGE update!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">So I’m back from my trip to Dodoma and of course I’m going to talk about that <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(at length) but first, some updates. A lot happened in the past few days, but since I didn’t have my computer with me I have a lot to catch you guys up on. If you were looking for ways to procrastinate, you’re in luck b/c today you guys get the <b>3-</b><b>for-the-price-of-1 blog post special</b> :~) If not, then <b>pick and choose the parts you want to read from the bolded headings</b>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>This update is sooo big it needs a <b>table of contents: </b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b>Post I. Updates</b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b>Post II. A little segment I like to call "Adventures on Public Transportation"</b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b>Post III. All about Dodoma </b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>I.</b><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><b> </b></span><b>UPDATES</b> </span></b></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Housing situation:</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve decided I just really didn’t like where I was living and I didn’t want to stay there all year so I got in contact with the family I stayed with last summer and now I’m going to live there. I’m moving on the 13<sup>th</sup> and I can’t wait. Their house is super nice (esp. compared to where I’m staying now) and I’ll get to come home to nice homemade meals instead of eating out every meal (like I’ve been doing) or having to hustle groceries on the crowded bus and cook dinner after a long day at work. Plus—wait for it—they have a washing machine!!!!!! I can’t tell you how happy I am to be saved from a year’s worth of laundry done by hand! Also, there’s a maid, guard, etc. Basically all the same amenities as the place I’m staying in now but in a much nicer house, with nicer (read: less creepy) inhabitants, slightly cheaper rent, and in a part of the city I prefer. The only drawback is that it’s a little farther from my office so instead of the 5-10 min taxi to and from work, it’ll be a 20-30 min bus, but I have a co-worker who lives nearby and can accompany me on the commute. But really, either way it’s a sacrifice I’m more than willing to make. Now…I just have to work up the nerve to tell my landlord that I’m outta here after only two weeks….</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>That whole sadness/ loneliness thing:</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Since I was on a five-day business trip I didn’t have much time to sit around and think about how lonely I was and how much I miss you guys. Five days of constant company and activity have gone a long way in terms of improving my mood. In addition to the trip, several heart2hearts with my best friends in TZ also helped tremendously.</p><p class="MsoNormal">On Sunday evening my best guy friends from TZ came over to hang out and he wanted to see pictures of my friends and family. At first I was a little wary b/c I thought looking at them might make me upset all over again. But I took a deep breath and scrolled through my iPhoto library with him. For the first time since I got here looking at pictures and videos of you guys doesn’t make my heart ache. Instead of having my chest tighten and my eyes fill with tears a huge grin spreads across my face. After my friend left, I decided that I’m finally in a place to read the bundle of cards and letters I couldn’t look at before w/ out getting choked up. So I spent an hour reading over the notes, poem, letters and memories you guys sent with me and I smiled the whole time. The panic and yearning induced by thoughts of home have been replaced with simple non-threatening nostalgia.</p><p class="MsoNormal">So after a low period I’m back to being super excited about living in Dar. I’m even starting to feel like a year might not be long enough to take it all in. I’m back to feeling like the luckiest person on earth. The gratitude I feel at being given this opportunity is almost too big to fit in my heart.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>Work:</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">I started work last Monday but then I went on a five-day trip the very next day so I haven’t actually spent much time in the office yet. Today (Monday the 6th) was my second day in the office. I got my first assignment today. I’ve been asked to create a brochure/pamphlet outlining one of Africare’s programs. I completed all the text today. Formatting and images are left for another day. Tomorrow is a public holiday called “Saba saba” (“seven seven” as in July 7<sup>th</sup>) so my office is closed. (Yay for a day off in the middle of the week!) Saba saba is a fair trade market day where vendors come from all over Africa to sell goods in a ridiculously huge open air market. Since I’ve been not feeling so great I doubt that I’ll venture into the crowds. I’ll probably just invite some friends over and hang out at the shore all day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m excited about getting my first assignment. It’s a chance to prove myself. Although it’s just creating a brochure I’m hopeful that proving my competence by going above and beyond the call of duty on this project will earn me more involved projects in the future. I pitched my draft to the program manager today (an hour after he assigned me to it) so I’m just waiting for feedback. More work updates to come.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-76348977250802336542009-06-29T11:41:00.003+03:002009-07-08T11:45:20.143+03:00What goes up...So after a great first few days in Dar, I had my first bad day. And my, was it bad. But first, let's start with a re-cap of the weekend. The concert didn't happen so it ended up being really low key. Just lounging around reading, lots of talking at the beachfront pub next door, etc. The one major that thing happened this weekend was moving out of the hostel at Changanyikeni into my new house in Masaki. Masaki is an ex-pat area full of NGO workers and (at the moment) vacationers. I called a cab, threw my two bags in, and arrived 30 min later at my new place.<div><br /><div> All of a sudden I was in a funk. The place didn't seem as great as it had a few days before, my friends didn't seem as close, and my loneliness seemed magnified. The first night I had a friend along so although I slept lightly I was mostly ok. The next night after she returned to the hostel my "funk" got worse. The room seemed dusty, grimy, and lonely. The house seemed empty, despite my 3 housemates. My housemates began to seem creepy instead of friendly and I despised the elitists ex-pats covering the town like a blanket of locusts. </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course this made me wish I were at home and my eyes began brimming. For five seconds I let the negative thoughts flood in, let the doubt and fear and loneliness wash over me, then I shut it off. ( A technique adopted from the lead character "Jack" on ABC's LOST. lol) After five-seconds of an absolute break down (I'm talking body racking sobs, gasping, drooling, you name it) I pulled out a little note of encouragement written for me by a close friend, dried my eyes, and decided to reassess the situation. I've got food, clothing, and shelter. I'm in a great place, with wonderful weather, and friendly people. And most importantly, I'm going to be fine. I knew that it would be hard to convince myself that everything would be ok if I sat locked in my room crying all day, so I pulled open the shades, threw on a bright sundress, and called a few friends to hang out. Although the tears returned a few times throughout the day, getting out of the house definitely did the trick. </div><div><br /></div><div>To add to the homesickness (or maybe b/c of the homesickness) I haven't been able to eat very much lately and I've been sleeping pretty lightly. It doesn't help that my stomach has been asking for McDonald's fries and Baja Fresh burritos. This morning I woke up feeling a lot better though. </div><div><br /></div><div>On a happier note, today is MY FIRST DAY AT WORK. I'm actually at work right now. I've just been touring the buildings and reading background info on my project. I have, however, been informed that I will be leaving tomorrow for a three day trip to the field with two co-workers. lol. Thirty minutes on the job and I've been sent to the field already. lol. That should be an adventure since the area we're traveling to is very rural. wow. lol. I prob won't have access to the internet (much less a computer) while I'm out there so I'll tell you guys all about it when I get back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wish me luck in the field!!</div></div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-44015015290470267842009-06-26T14:05:00.003+03:002009-06-26T14:26:58.006+03:00The key to life in DarLiving in Dar is simple. The trick is to trust the city. Trust that when your driver says "nakuja" he will be there, becasue he will. And trust that when it suddenly starts raining while you are without an umbrella it will stop just as suddenly, because it's true. And trust that when you are hungry with no food or thirsty with no water, someone will appear on the street selling sustenance for dirt cheap prices, because it happens. Even for the most Type A control freak type of people this trust is not hard to cultivate, because the city and its people prove that they are trustworthy by coming through over and over again. I moved to Dar with no idea where I would stay. I trusted that something would come along, and in three days I happened to meet someone who knew someone who came through for me. No wonder it's impossible to be stressed in Dar. The system (or mayeb lack thereof) forces you to mellow out. You have no choice but to "go with the flow". As they say here "No hurry in Africa."<br /><br /> Yesterday I got an impromptu invitation to a pre-wedding bride send-off ceremony. (And by impromptu I mean that Sandra yelled up to the top floor of the hostel "Hey Krista, wanna go to a wedding thing? We're leaving in five minutes!" lol!) Of course I went, and I had a great time. Apparently only the groom's family is allowed to invite people to the wedding so the pre-wedding activities are dominated by the bride's family. In addition to the send-off there is also a "kitchen party"-- a female only get together where married women teach the bride to be everything she needs to know about how to run a successful household and how to "please her man".<br /> The send-off is supposed to symbolize the bride's family officially handing her over to the groom and his family. The ceremony included traditional dramas, dances, etc. When it came time to give the bride her gifts, the guests danced up to the stage where she was sitting waving their packages above their heads. There were mops, cooking utensils, laundry hampers, dustpans, kangas, and kitenges. Everything you need to run a proper African household! lol. The best part for me was undoubtedly the food and music. We were supposed to go "clubbing" afterwards but it was getting late and a few of us had to get up early so we called it a night.<br /><br /> The Princeton kids have gone away to Zanzibar for the weekend, which is a little sad (especially since I'll be moving out of the hostel and starting my job while they're gone), but there's a lot on the weekend schedule nonetheless. Apparently Beenie Man is in town so I think a group of Carnegie Melon kids, Tanzanian friends, and I are going to the concert. There's also the rescheduled clubbing plus a birthday dinner for one of the Carnegie Melon kids (Lebanese food), and hopefully a trip to the beach. Not to mention moving my stuff over to my new house and unpacking. (On an unrelated note: I went to the store in search of clothes hangers only to discover that they cost nearly $7 per 5-pack!!!! No thank you. Dresser drawers it is!) So, even with the Princeton kids gone I won't be sitting alone in my room. With fun like this open to me, I never wanna start work. I want my days open to just bum around the city.<br /><br />My next mission is to figure out if the internet connection is strong enough for me to upload pictures! Stay tuned...<br />TutaonanaKristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-12030077006807527992009-06-25T16:03:00.002+03:002009-06-25T16:20:01.716+03:00Over the moon!As the title has probably already informed you, I am over the moon today! So many great things have happened to me in just a few hours. Most of you know I prefer things in "story format" so I'll start from the beginning. Yesterday I set up a meeting with my boss, so I woke up this morning and prepared for that. I was so nervous that I forgot the eat breakfast! (Actual it's 4:30 p.m. here and I still haven't eaten.) Anyway I took a cab into the "city center" since I'm kind of on the outskirts. We got there with no problems, but since I don't like to be late I had built in a lot of "cushion time". I left at 9:30 for an 11 o'clock meeting because I didn't know how long it would take to get there and Dar traffic is usually a nightmare since there are little to no traffic regulations. Anyway, I got there extremely early so I was falling all over myself trying to apologize because I arrived at a time when my boss was supposed to have another meeting. But since her 10 o'clock meeting was late she agreed to see me right then. She called in the head of finance and HR to handle my questions. (Most were housing and finance related.) After the meeting The HR head and I went to handle to housing question. I was looking for something safe, close to my job, and CHEAP! By chance I met another young itnern working there and she suggested a few places for me to try. Listen when I say I hit the JACK POT! I'm renting a room in a house with three Irish guys (my bedroom door locks), but here's the kicker: air conditioned, furnished, utilities included, maid, guard, internet, satelite tv, access to a kitchen and living room, private bath, next door to an amzaing pub, and A VIEW OF THE INDIAN OCEAN! All for an amazing price. I put a down payment on the room and got the key right away! I'm soooooo excited. I can barely believe my luck! I'm moving out of the hostel into my house on Saturday! I'm really going to miss hanging out with the students in the hostel, but living closer to downtown gives me such a different perspective of the city! Much more hustle and bustle and a lot of ex-pats. There's even an Apple Store down there!<br /> The intern at my job was so helpful. She's a really sweet Swedish girl who's working on her masters at FSU. She's super friendly and she introduced me to some of her friends. When I move in on Sat. she's going to show me around and help me get familiar with the area. My first ex-pat friend!<br /> I must have been Mother Theresa in a past life to deserve all of this! I'm not usually religious, but I'm feeling super blessed. I can't belive this is my life!<br /><br />I start my job on Monday so look out for updates!Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-44187230281253845722009-06-24T16:21:00.004+03:002009-06-24T16:51:12.851+03:00...grab a SnickersSo... after nineteen hours on a plane including stops in Rome and Addis Ababa I've finally reached Dar. The flight was uneventful and I somehow lucked out and got entire rows to myself so I could stretch out and sleep (almost comfortably). I'm glad to say there were minimal tears in the airport and just a few moments of choking up (but not acutally letting tears fall) on the plane.<br />I got in yesterday around 1p.m. dar time (7 hours ahead of EST) and after a little confusion managed to check in to the hostel where I'll be staying until I can find a more permanent residence. I'm staying right upstairs from some Princeton kids and some students from other schools who are in Dar for the summer. I spent last night getting to know them before heading to bed. Unfortunately, a combination of jet lag and anxiety didn't let me get to sleep before 1 a.m. I woke up somewhere around 4:30 a.m., even though I had taken a sleep aid earlier to prevent that exact thing from happening!<br />I will admit the first night was pretty rough in terms of anxiety and homesickness but today is much, much better. I sat in on a Swahili class in the morning before heading to the mall to buy a phone (e-mail if you want the number!) and an iron (packing/ handwashing do not mix well with the wrinkle-free clothing necessary for a professional appearance). Then I had lunch with the Princeton kids and now I'm at the mall (no joke) in an internet cafe. I'll probably round out the day by teaching English at Mwenge market tonight.<br />Walking aroung the city has reminded me of how much I love it here and why I wanted to do this in the first place. The weather is beautiful and the people are just as friendly as I remember. I've arranged a meeting with my boss tomorrow to discuss things like housing and stipend distribution. Since the meeting is pretty early in the morning I might head to the orphanage after that to visit the kids I worked with last year.<br />I'm thinking about you guys, and looking at your pictures, and just generally feeling like I left my heart in the states but I think once I start my job and get settled in things will be great. Although I'm in Dar it still has yet to sink in. I'm still trying to grasp the fact that I'll be here for A YEAR. I've already taken my first cold shower of many to come, ridden in a dala dala (google image it), and gotten reacclimated to the gekkos creeping across the walls in the night but somehow this still doesn't feel real. Since I'm not going anywhere for a while I guess I better grab a Snickers.Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4984220948928653314.post-48702273968549476322009-06-18T00:31:00.001+03:002009-06-18T00:58:48.418+03:005 days from Dar!<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>So... I'm almost ready to ship out. I've gotten my visa, vaccinations, prescriptions, etc., and I've (sorta) started packing. My plane leaves on Monday morning and I'll be there on Tuesday sometime around 1 pm TZ time (7 hours ahead of the U.S.). The flight is somewhere between 19-24 hours. I still don't have a TZ residence so I'm going to stay in a hostel for the first few days and do some house hunting from there. <div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I've been running around for the last few days buying everything I could possibly need. I've got first aid kits, flashlights, booklights, dvds, hand sanitizer, computer games...the list goes on. I'm pretty sure I've got it all, but for some reason I can't shake the feeling that I'm forgetting something. Something really important. Something one of a kind. Something I won't be able to get in Dar. Something I'll miss terribly. It's probably just nervous anxiety caused by the stress of having to condense your entire life into two suitcases. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Now that my travel documents are in order and packing is started there's nothing left to do but soak up my last few days in America and say my goodbyes.</div>Kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03214513093850713957noreply@blogger.com9