"The Land of a Thousand Hills"

Almost a year ago, I watched a documentary about the 1994 Rwandan Genocide. Between the images the breathtaking country side and brutality, I vowed that I would see it for myself someday—the green fertile hills and how a country rebuilds after it has torn itself apart.

After two days of bus rides, Julie and I found ourselves in Kigali, the capital city. We were surprised how many people spoke English or Kiswahili (the official languages are French and Rwandan) and how many people helped us find the right buses and change money. We met other American friends of ours from Dar who had gotten to Kigali a few days before us and went out for dinner to celebrate one of their birthdays. We hailed eight motorcycle taxis on the street to take us to the restaurant. Cruising through the cool evening, up and down hills along small streets felt like a good beginning to the end—my last adventure on this trip to Africa. Even the motos didn’t go to the right restaurant and go lost several times on the way to a suitable substitute, the ridiculousness of eight Wazungu (the word seems to be the same in Rwandan) with lost, confused motorcyclists, compensated for the lack of preciseness.

In Kigali, we visited the Genocide Memorial Center, a small well-organized museum that clarified many of the questions about the genocide, that Julie and I had been asking each other on our way. We also went to Ntamara, the site of a small church where 5,000 Tutsis were killed. After a sunny walk, we entered a quiet church, not prepared to see the rows of skulls and bones along back and clothes along every wall. Numbly I took pictures, feeling callous, but desperate to capture the moment.

The next day we went to Murabi, where thousands of people were slaughtered in a school. After the bodies had been excavated from the mass graves, they were preserved in lime. We peered into about half of the 24 classrooms filled with white-coated bodies, contorted and mangled spread out across tables. We saw bodies with broken bones, smashed heads, and pained expressions. The faces of men, women, and children looked like they were trying to scream. But the rooms were silent and outside the sun shone and small children played with pinwheels in a field. When I held up my camera they cheered and posed.

We spent the rest of the trip on cramped buses or Dhalas, visiting different cities, photographing kids through the windows. I’m not sure why, but I was more affected by beggars in Rwanda and found myself handing over small change and snacks more frequently than in Tanzania. When I bout a pack of cookies to hand out to a crowd of dirty kids, Julie told them that I was a malaika (angel). I felt uncomfortable, aware that I only fed them to appease my guilt.

We spent two nights in Kibuye, a town next to Lake Kivu, the lake bordering the Democratic Republic of Congo. We walked around searching a convenient beach to swim, but only saw fishermen on boats in the lake. Rwandans seem more concerned with farming than encouraging tourism, but we enjoyed walking around the small town.

The food was also a welcome slight variation. Although most food is similar to Tanzanian standards, many restaurants have buffets with rice, French fries, salad, beans, green beans, spinach and cooked bananas for about $2. Even better, cheese is cheaper and more flavorful than in Tanzania. We think its their connections with France.

Throughout traveling in Rwanda, I never heard anyone mention tribal affiliation, but I heard many people refer to the genocide. A stranger on a bus told us that Rwanda had a sad history, but that the sadness was finished. When I took pictures of the DRC border and a man wanted to take my camera from me, I showed the camera to a female police officer to prove I had erased the offensive pictures. She saw the pictures from Murabi and shook her head, saying “so much bad.” The people say that the problems are over that they are one pople now. I have trouble believing that decades of ethnic strife can end so quickly. But looking over green hills dotted by small memorials decorated in purple, the color of mourning, I want to believe that this peace can last.

Now I'm back in the dorms for a few days, running the last few errands and packing before I go back home. I'm already worried about feeling cold and culture shocked in America, but am listening to Christmas music to get excited.

I'm at an internet cafe in Rwanda right now, but I feel like if I don't post this now I never will, so here is a brief update on security issues on campus:


Sunday: One of my friends was almost robbed just off the main campus near her homestay house at dusk. She sprayed the guys with mace and screamed until her neighbors chased them away.
Monday: Two of my had their locked room and closet broken into. The police were unhelpful, ineffective, and thought they were the Scooby gang solving a mystery.
Tuesday: The police try to arrest my friends Ugandan boyfriend for living in the dorm in the middle of the night. He shouldn't have been staying there, but had been for weeks and other boyfriends were staying there. The difference: he's black and the other guys are white. You wouldn't think that a black man sleeping with a white woman would be such a threat in Africa. They actually asked my friend if she wasn't scared that he would beat her. They also didn't have to wake us all up and scare the poor kid who doesn't speak Swahili half to death.
Friday: I had tickets to a Boy II Men concert, but they didn't show up because one was sick. I never got a refund. (Not related to security, but a pretty upsetting occurence nonetheless).

Campus just didn't feel safe without Tanzanian students there. Walking home from teaching English at the carver's market at night, I used to know I could shout and people would come running. But after the students left, it was totally different, empty, quiet and intimidating.

I'm really glad to have finished my finals and traveling through Rwanda. Stay tuned for a post about Rwanda someday...

Malaria

Over the last week some things some things cleared up. Although no one knows when Tanzanian students will return to campus, foreign students met with professors, who agreed to condense classes so we’ll probably have enough time to travel before Christmas. So much smaller classes have resumed and we actually have homework for the next two weeks to fit all the material in.

Even though some stability had returned, I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling so exhausted and frazzled. I had more trouble waking up every morning until Thursday, the morning of my seminar presentation. Then I woke up with such a bad stomach ache, that I didn’t want to get out of bed at all. Convinced I had food poisoning, I dragged myself to my seminar then, on orders of several friends, to a nearby clinic to get malaria tested. I’m glad I listened.

We had been here for months and knew few foreigners on anti-malarial medication to fall ill, but over the last week at 7 international students have been diagnosed with malaria.

It’s basically a bad flu. There are so many symptoms that diagnosing it can be difficult, especially because anti-malarial medication often covers them up. I am taking my medicine, even though Mefloquine occasionally gives me anxiety attacks at night (To Poisonwood Bible fans: no, I’m hiding my pills behind my bed). That’s why I wandered around with malaria for a week before the lab technician told me that I had “plenty of malaria.”

But at least I went to an off-campus clinic and tested positive the first time. Two of my friends tested negative at the free, on-campus clinic, waited a few days, then got tested off-campus and were positive. By that point, they were so sick they both ended up in the hospital on IVs because they couldn’t hold down liquids—or their medication. The test is simple--a doctor pricks your finger then examines your blood under a microscope—but the margin of error at the on-campus clinic is enormous.

After a few days in bed, I’m almost back to myself. Malaria is completely treatable. The real people at risk of dying of malaria are children and pregnant mothers. Almost everyone I’ve ever met from Africa has had (and survived) malaria. And Tanzanians seem to think that fruit cures malaria, so my favorite fruit vendor gave me a free mango.

In summary, having malaria was a very Tanzanian experience, but it wasn't much fun and I don’t think I want to do it again.

I know I haven't written in a long time, and I'm not sure why. I've been meaning to.

Lately I've been dwelling on the topic of language- something that's obviously been in the forefront of my mind ever since I got here, and I guess still is. I'm still spending a lot of time thinking about the complexities of language, of different accents and different ways of expressing thoughts.

Some weeks ago (or was it months now, even?) a friend of ours asked Rachel and me if it's strange for us to hear friends of ours here from other countries speak English. Most of our Erasmus friends here don't speak English very often, just German, but I have heard it once in a while. The answer to that question is that their accents really don't sound strange to me, something that I found surprising the first time I realized it. I got used to all of their accents in German long before I heard them speak English, and because of it, a friend speaking accented English just sounds to me like they're using their own personal way of speaking, which makes sense when I hear it.

Maybe it's because I have little experience with foreign languages, other than German, but I've been discovering new things about languages all the time- German, but also other languages. I remember, at Oktoberfest, the difficulty I had at first explaining to Italians my aunt's relationship to me: no one understand the word 'aunt.' After a little while, I started introducing her as my father's sister, to which the response was always, "Oh, she's your uncle." Eventually I would just answer, "Yes, my uncle," however strange I felt saying that. While my Italian skills are pretty limited (or pretty non-existent, except when it comes to food) I guessed, and then found out, that the word for aunt in Italian is similar tothe one for uncle. It's interesting because our words, 'aunt' and 'uncle,' are so distinct that they almost seem like entirely separate concepts- the connotations are very different to me, whether or not they should be.

When it comes to classes, I can understand almost everything my professors say, even when they speak quickly. Speaking in class myself is another issue, mainly because I'm still a bit intimidated, but I'll work on that. If there's anyone who's difficult to understand, it's actually the other students, who often don't enunciate clearly, but I'm getting better at that, too.

I usually hear a few English phrases in every class, usually because a phrase is more popular in English, and so not translated. Many classes (in German) here include reading in English, because most of the field's research is published in English, but I didn't end up taking any like that. I do have a professor, though, who loves to use English phrases in his lectures. It doesn't really affect my understanding one way or another, but I find it interesting.

I had a dream last night where I was speaking German. It's the first time that's happened, although I do often find myself thinking in German, especially when I've been spoken little to no English all day. My German has improved here greatly, especially my accent, although there's still a huge divide between the way I understand things in German and in English. I still have a hard time visualizing things I read in German, or remembering specific phrases that I've read, rather than just their meaning. English words just hold so many connotations for me that German ones usually seem less powerful.

On another subject, election night here was interesting, but certainly less climactic than it seems to have been for everyone back home. Wherever I went to watch the returns (the English department party, and two different bars) everyone was tuned into CNN, watching it in English. I celebrated, of course, and stayed up to watch it become official around 6 am, missing my first class the next day. Come Wednesday, though, it was back to life as usual here, I'm glad to report. I can't say for certain what went on at home, but I did hear some reports of Obama-mania/worship gone overboard. I'm hope, at the least, that everyone's keeping their heads and thinking about what 'change' actually means.

Obama Ameshinda! Obama has Won!

Later, I will try to reflect on the significance of an Obama victory and how people have reacted in Tanzania. For now, I just want to say this is a great day. Right now, I really am proud of America.

Have a nice day!

love,

Megan

Just a quick note...

So in the past week since the alleged attack from the last post, parts of the girl's story have been called into question. She is returning home now, but some people believe that she may have fabricated the incident. If the story isn't true then I'm sorry for alarming anyone, but irregardless we all spent a large part of last week in a panic.

School Timeline

I’ve gotten a lot of questions about classes so here’s a timeline:

• July-August: I studied Kiswahili for 7 weeks at the university
• Early September: Classes were supposed to start. They were postponed.
• September 29: Classes officially started, except that no professors or students came to classes. Most students hadn’t actually moved in because they knew that classes never start on time. We tried for a few days to attend classes based on the confusing timetable posted online. Please note that there are no course descriptions anywhere. Only names, times, and locations. I give up and go Nairobi.
  
• October 6-10: Some professors and students came to classes. More and more came by the end of the week. We ran around collecting syllabuses trying to piece together a schedule of classes where the professors speak decent English. Some people walked into classes taught completely in Swahili because the professors wanted the students to understand the lesson.
• October 10: Official end of class registration. Deadline was postponed because most of us couldn’t log into the system. I still can’t. My registration number was switched with another American.
• October 13-17: Pretty much all professors are showing up to classes. I’ve decided not to take an extra academic class because I’m probably not going to learn much anyways. I’ve been to 3^rd year history classes where they spend 2 classes defining history. Students don’t how to speak in class and have no access to reading materials. I keep searching the library to no avail. I just want to be a good student and do my homework, but can't.
  
• October 27: Date of national student strike. It will probably last a few days to a week. I might travel again.
  
• October 31: New registration deadline.
• Mid-December: Foreign students take finals early to go home.

It will be the shortest semester ever. The real lesson I’m learning here is how poor the education system is here. Primary school is taught in Swahili, but the secondary school and university are taught in English. People don’t learn English well and there are no national resources going into education. This is the best university in country and its taught at high school level in America.

And for some sobering news:

Almost every week something happens to remind us that we aren’t completely safe here. A wallet gets grabbed on a Dhala Dhala, a laptop is stolen from a room. On Sunday afternoon, a strange Tanzanian man came by a girl’s room saying he was looking for a room for a friend. He asked her if she had a roommate. She told him she didn’t and he left. Later she went to the shower and he came back, grabbed her, and forced himself into her room. She fought back and he didn’t take anything, but he had a razor and cut her lightly on the face and shoulder. What scares me is that her laptop was next to her. If he wanted to steal something he could have. They think he was trying to rape her. We have guards outside the building, but they didn’t see him come in or leave. I’ve come back late and night seen the guards missing or sleeping. Our most common guard is a kind old grandmother, who couldn’t hurt a fly. Even the Tanzanian students are scared. It's an all girls' dorm. We're all always targets--apparently even in our rooms in broad daylight.

First Week of Classes

My first 5 weeks of Göttingen have gone by in a blur. During the first three weeks, I took an intense language course with other European exchange students who are also going to be in Göttingen for the semester and/or year. The true value of the course was not really learning more German (academically, I got very little out of the course), but rather getting an orientation to the university and meeting other people. The language course felt a bit like freshman orientation all over again.

After the course ended, Jackie, some friends from the language course, and I went to Munich and Oktoberfest, and then Jackie and I went on to Vienna. Probably either Jackie or I will later blog about Munich and/or Vienna, so I won't dwell on that much now. But I will say that it was a wonderful trip.

Now, though, vacation/orientation time is over and the school year has begun. The process of registering for classes has been, quite frankly,  a headache. The Göttingen website isconfusing and the process of finding and registering for classes very complicated. All the German students I have met have been incredibly helpful in attempting to explain the process, but often even they do not completely understand it. To explain: every department organizes their course selection process differently and have different registration deadlines. For instance, I can search for German Department courses in the central course catalog, but I cannot find the descriptions of the courses there. To find the course descriptions, I must go to the German Department website. The History Department includes course descriptions in the course catalog for most but not all courses (there are some courses that seem interesting based on their title, but I cannot find the description or reading list anywhere). Some departments (ex. Spanish) do not include descriptions on their websites or in the course catalog, but rather on the website through which we register for classes. 

After going though the trouble of actually finding classes, the registration website is easy to navigate and I do not have to get the signature of an advisor. However, much to my surprise, the German Department required students to register for classes a month ago. Now that the deadline has passed, I have to send an email to the professor of the German lit class I want to take asking for permission. I wrote him a week ago and am still waiting a reply. Whether or not I get an email, I am still going to the class tomorrow and hopefully I will not be thrown out.

I now know more or less which courses I am taking, but am using this week to shop around a bit. My Spanish class yesterday was very well taught, and I have heard great things about the professor of the history class I am taking at 6 pm today (evening classes seem common). I am excited that the official school year has finally begun and I will let you know how things progress from here. 

Nairobi

Classes were supposed to start last week, but none started, so I took off for Nairobi, Kenya with some Americans from another program. Other Americans warned us against robbery, pickpockets, scam artists, and beggars, but we went anyways.

We left at 6 AM, thinking the bus should arrive by 7 PM. Instead our bus broke down in Moshi. We spent an hour playing cards on the side of the road and waiting. The ride was uneventful from Moshi until the Kenyan border, where we checked out of Tanzania and paid our Kenyan visa fees. Because buying our visas took longer, the bus almost left us alone in the dark. Luckily, we ran and caught up just in time. As we crossed the Kenyan border, the roads surprisingly got worse (they’re pretty awful in Tanzania) and we were soon stopped by police checking that passengers were wearing seatbelts. Spending the last three months in Tanzania, I almost forgot about seatbelts .

We got increasingly nervous driving through the dark, so when we arrived at 9:45, we stepped into a taxi and asked for Backpacker’s Hostel. We decided the hostel chain might be a little more expensive than other guesthouses, but we could stay one night and then move somewhere cheaper. However after one night at the Backpackers, we couldn’t imagine moving. A wonderful Kenyan woman, Patricia, owned the hotel and took great care of us. She cooked for us and gave us directions. We decided we could afford to pay a little extra for a tv, a fireplace in the outdoor dining room, a puppy named Scooby Doo, and warm showers.

We spent the first day wandering around the city, marveling at how urban it felt. We noted immediately that there was no trash on the ground or burning like in Dar-es-Salaam, no squat toilets, and that buildings were taller and better maintained. Although, I didn’t see many Mzungu, Kenyans didn’t stare at us the way Tanzanians do. Nairobi was so well-developed; I could forget I was in Africa. Everyone spoke English clearly and wealthier Kenyans even spoke English to each other. I went to the National Museum and was amazed at how much more organized it was than most Tanzanian museums. Although people pointed out parts of the city that had been disturbed by violence last year, there is currently no visible evidence of last year's upheaval.

The next day, we toured Kibera, the second-largest slum in the world. We slid through rain and across mud paths down into the valley of mud homes and tin roofs, passing signs for small NGOs and private schools. Because the Kenyan government doesn’t officially recognize Kibera’s existence there are no public schools in the area. But we never felt unsafe or even very sad. The people were friendly and they seemed happy despite their poverty. The conditions were cramped and unsanitary—mud dripped through irrigation pipes and there was no room between homes. We visited a shop were men make jewelry from cow bones and a youth center where the kids made beaded jewelry. I couldn't resist buying a few necklaces to support the workers and remember my visit.

I’m not sure why people warned so strongly against Nairobi. It was worth seeing at least once and I’d love to go again someday. The nightlife was more fun than in Dar; Kenyans are better dancers than most Tanzanians and it was exciting to see a city recover (at least on the surface) so quickly from such great turmoil as last year’s election violence.

Since I’ve returned, classes are starting slowly but surely. Not all professors are coming to class, but each day more professors and students show up. I’m supposed to register by Friday, but still go to classes without professors and am not sure what I want to take. We’re all running around trying to find good classes that are actually happening. But on the bright side, I’ve met my roommate, Nehema. She is a very sweet sociology major and we have class together. She has a tv and is currently unpacking a suitcase full of clothes, wondering why she brought so much. I think we could get along well. At least I hope so.

"Guy Love" and other issues

Classes are supposed to start today, but no one I know has attended a class that actually began. I’m not sure when classes are offered, where their offered, or where I can find an updated schedule. While I wait, here is a blog entry about homosexuality and gender issues in Tanzania.

There’s a ten year-old boy at the orphanage who loves to braid my hair. He dresses up younger kids in scarves and I’ve seen him try on high heels. When I wear a new dress, he tells me how pretty it is. The other kids don’t tease him about his love for beauty. The caretakers don’t admonish him for being too feminine.

Similarly, men walk down the street holding hands. No one teases or questions. For the most part, homosexuality is so taboo, so unexpected, that people don’t acknowledge its existence. In this deeply religious country, two men holding hands are just friends. European and American friends of mine with same sex partners don’t talk about their sexuality in public. Luckily, the Kiswahili language makes this easy. Kiswahili pronouns are gender neutral. Yeye means “he” or “she.” Mchumba means “fiancée,” Mpenzi means “lover.” You can have a long conversation about someone with specifying their gender. People just assume it’s the opposite.

Despite its gender neutral language, Tanzania is still a very gender segregated country. I talked to some members of the “Gender Club” last week and picked up their pamphlets. Rather than promoting women’s rights or feminism, they promote “gender mainstreaming”—recruiting female students and making campus more tolerant to women. I’m happy that such a group exists, that the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences is almost half female, and that university outreaches specifically to women. But I wish women didn’t feel vulnerable to sexual advances or attack walking across campus alone and that more families encouraged girls to succeed academically. I’ve found that in most interactions with men, women take a subordinate role. Men make decisions and initiate contact; a woman asking a man on a date is unthinkable. For the most part, Tanzanian men and women cannot be friends. If a man and a woman walk together in public, people assume they’re dating. Although men hold hands frequently, other than shaking hands as greetings men and women don’t touch in public.

My relatively light skin complicates matters for me. Men have told my friends that white skin is blessed; kids have told me my skin is beautiful. People want to date Mzungus both for the potential income and the status of being with a lighter skinned person. Tanzanian men have told me they like being seen with me in public because people will assume we’re dating. There aren’t the same boundaries as in the US. I’ve had strangers call me their “Mchumba,” or “Mrembo” (beautiful), an economics professor give me his business card, and many men ask for my phone number. I smile, say I don’t have a phone or pretend that I don’t understand or that I have a husband. The remnants of traditional gender hierarchy and neo-colonialism reveal themselves constantly in the view of women as commodities and the glorification of light skin in a black country.

As much as I love Tanzania, it’s a difficult place to be queer, questioning, or a woman who wants to be anything other than a housewife.

And maybe it's the time of year

What is there to say about Göttingen right now? I've been here almost three weeks, and I still like it. I'm not sure if that means I'm only at the peak of that adjustment curve I've heard so much about (and getting ready to dislike being here), but I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Lately I've been getting lazy when it comes to cooking meals, but that's started to change this week. Last night I made hamburgers, and tonight, vermicelli. Tomorrow morning, provided I wake up early enough, I'll make pastina, and tomorrow night, I'm planning penne with peppers and olives and maybe sausage. I know I'll miss this when I get back to Amherst: not only the ability to make food, but also the impetus (no Val). Well, that'll only be a year.

I donated money to Obama's campaign about two months ago or so, and they sent me a few Obama buttons. My mother sent them along last week, and they arrived yesterday.

One of them's been pinned to my jacket ever since. I feel strange about wearing it, can't exactly pinpoint why. I think I'd feel completely normal wearing it in the U.S., but here I don't want to feel even a little bit like I'm wearing it to show that I'm a 'good' American, not the crazy religious conservative American that I imagine Europeans think of when they think of the United States. Also, I don't want it to mean that I don't have any doubts about Obama, because I certainly do. In spite of all that, though, he's the best (nominated) presidential candidate we've had in my lifetime, and I think he can win.

One thing I've noticed about talking to foreign students here is that they seem to have a much better grasp about the leanings of American political parties. That is, those that I've talked to about it have all mentioned that the Democrats aren't really too liberal, which is something you don't hear all that often in the U.S., especially when it comes to the news media. I'm very aware that our news media aren't really fond of distinctions. Still, hearing others say that makes me wonder why it has to be that the Democrats are always conveniently the 'liberals' and the Republicans the 'conservatives,' and if you fall outside of that spectrum you're a radical.

Hmmm. This doesn't actually seem to be about Germany anymore, does it? Maybe I should tell about how I wiped out in the parking lot of a grocery store the other day while rollerblading (in my defense, it was a very steep hill). Or I could tell about how after rollerblading back from the grocery store, I realized that rollerblades are for fun and not for shopping. Skating with a heavy backpack full of groceries was tiring, and the fact that it started to rain didn't help. Next time I'll take my bike, once that works again.

Anyway.

Mwizi

I came back from my Friday morning run to worried friends. One of the girls on our program had also been out running and had been mugged. She ran the same route every morning at 5:30 AM, but never ran more than 10 minutes away from campus. Apparently, she had passed two Tanzanian men on a busy main road. They ran beside her for a minute, then grabbed her around the neck, took her ipod, and pushed her into a ditch. She returned, bruised and nervous. For the rest of the day, she worried about every Tanzanian man we passed.

We’ve been on edge for a while now. Last week, a group of European girls were robbed at machete point walking back to the dorm at night. Thieves rob Mzungus because they think we have money, but also because they know many Mzungus fear yelling Mwizi (thief) more than they fear losing their belongings.

We were all warned that crowds of Tanzanians routinely beat accused “Mwizis.” A week after we arrived at the university, a crowd beat a man to death on campus before the police arrived. That week, we had dinner at our program coordinator’s house and her family calmly discussed the matter. They were surprised that beatings like this don’t routinely occur in the US and explained that he was a bad man because he had stolen from a woman on campus. A month later, other students on our program saw a crowd dragging a thief through the street. People beat the man with a plank while a policeman watched. Peaceful, ordinary citizens often take part in this vigilante justice.

Knowing this, even if there were people to help around, I don’t think my friend would have called “Mwizi.” The choice is an ipod or a lifetime of guilt. She was more scared of the physical threat than upset about the loss of property. But dangerous or not, this is our home for the next three months and we have to keep living. I’ve stopped running off-campus, but I won’t give up my on-campus morning runs or teaching English to local craftspeople at night. We’ll still go out some nights in groups. I’m careful and aware, but I still trust most people (except Tanzanian men asking for my number)

Adventure Pictures

Ngorongoro

Can you feel the love tonight?

A waterfall and no near-drowning incidents

Kili

Look how close I am

Isaya the jumping bean

Goat. It's what's for dinner. Or not really.

Our comfy goat-skin bed

The fly baby--I wanted to clean all the kids so much, especially Isaya's youngest sister

I'm so Masai!

Good bye braids

Lions, Mountains, and Goats, oh my

We were able to visit a Masai Boma on a cultural tourism program and because that was a little spendy and exhausting, we forwent visiting Lake Victoria and Rwanda and return to Dar. Here is what we did do:

Safari

Because our other friends are going on safari later with family, Tony (our one guy) and I went alone for two days through Lake Mnara and Ngorongoro Crater. A friend recommended a guide, JP. He was supposedly a Rastafarian. Although he calls that into question by eating meat, our cooks name was Ziggy and JP spent lunches smoking “Bob Marley Cigarettes.” Still, he was a good guide. He drove and stopped as we wanted and we got to see elephants, giraffes, zebras, hippos, and wildebeests from remarkably close. Most notably, in Ngorongoro, we joined a crowd of jeeps watching lions mate from a distance. After they mated once, a herd of water buffalo chased the happy couple away from the watering hole to about 10 feet from the safari cars. After the other cars had moved on, the lions began to mate again, right in front of our car. Although I sang, "Can you feel the love tonight?," there’s no room for foreplay or cuddling in a lion’s life. The entire event lasted less than thirty seconds.

Kili Hike

After safari, we met our other friends in Moshi to hike around the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Hiking the whole mountain would cost over one thousand dollars and take 6 days, so we chose to get good views of the mountain instead. Usually covered by clouds, we were lucky to spot the beautiful mountain during the hike and from our hotel. Another Rasta guide took us on a fairly strenuous hike to a waterfall that was bigger and more impressive than Kaporogwe. A few of us swam in the icy water, but fortunately everyone who went could swim this time. On the way back, we tried banana beer (aweful gritty stuff) and visited our guide’s Mama and Bibi (grandmother) in the nearby village. When we wanted to take pictures of his grandmother, the tiny old woman ran back to change into a clean kitenge for the occasion.

Masai Boma

Our trip reached its climax at Isaya’s Boma. A boma is a family complex of a man’s hut with his wives’ huts and his cattle pens. We stayed in the hut of Isaya’s mother’s (his father’s first of two wives) because unlike many Tanzanians his age, Isaya is not yet married. He is 28, but a warrior chief who completed the London Marathon in four hours doing the Masai Jump (it looks like skipping) in full Masai garb, tire sandals, jewelry, a shield, and staff. He hasn’t married yet because he wants to study and return to his village to help improve irrigation and tourism programs. To do so he will give up his position as chief for several years.

We took an hour ride in a dhaladhala and another one in the back of a crowded truck to get to Isaya’s village, where we met his family, including lots of fly-covered little siblings. From childhood, the kids run wild. While, most Tanzanian’s speak Kiswahili as their first language, Masai people learn Kimasai, then English, and then Kiswahili. Most woman in the village really only speak Kimasai because they don’t ever leave the area. Masai culture is the most gender-segregated society I’ve ever witnessed. But with special Wazungu privileges, we were able to watch the men dance and sing in high-pitched Kimasai, helped them gather firewood (that didn’t exactly feel like a privilege), and they killed a goat in our honor. We were told to name the goat after someone we respected, so we named him “Barack Obama.” Like most Tanzanians, the Masai men like Obama and approved of our name choice. I could watch them suffocate the goat for about 10 seconds before cringing and leaving, but watching them dissect the goat like surgeons was fascinating. Out of respect for the Masai, I ate a small piece of the raw kidney, drank a sip of the blood, and ate a piece of the barbequed meat. The salty, bloody tasting meat confirmed my vegetarianism and upset my stomach. Because none of us could really eat the meat, Isaya’s mother made us a tasteless maize porridge we ate while the men sing, dance, and play games in the tiny, smoky hut until late. The Masai men had plenty of energy because they were constantly snorting some sort of speed so they can stay up late watching cattle. After we fell asleep, they wandered around most of the night. We slept four to a small bed of hay covered by goatskin. Needless to say, by the time we got back to Arusha, we were exhausted and ready for a

I was amazed by how the Masai hold on to their culture, while adapting to Western influences. They wear sandals made of tires and make jewelry out of imported plastic beads. They do a good job of marketing themselves to tourists, but while danced, they really weren’t performing for us; they were entertaining themselves. We were tourists, but also visitors into the daily lives of modern Masai.

Rwanda Tribunal

It was surprisingly easy to enter the Arusha International Conference Center. We just handed over our passports, passed through a metal detector, and were on our way to witnessing a UN court proceed over genocide suspects. We watched them question an Italian priest as a witness, but they stumbled over translations in English, French, and Italian so much that they mostly quibbled over his whereabouts during April, 1994 during the hour we watched. The UN says the tribunal will end in 2010, 16 years after the genocide, and after billions of dollars, less than 75 people will be tried. Despite its inefficiencies, I was glad I went to and saw this symbolic, fledging process of international justice.

Unbraided

We got home and spent last night watching “Gossip Girl” from a pirated street vendor dvd and unbraiding my hair. We thought it would be fun, but it took almost 5 hours and was quite painful for me and everyone pulling my hair out. I owe my friends all big zawadis (presents) for their dedication. So after four episodes of “Gossip Girl” and washing my hair three times to decrease puffiness, I look like myself again.

Good luck to those starting classes! I might start...someday...hopefully by the beginning of next month. For now, just hanging out in Dar.

And we'll talk in present tenses

I've been here a week already, and until now haven't updated. There's an explanation: I just got internet in my room for the first time yesterday. I’ve already begun the process of contacting a mass amount of people to see how they’re doing.

My first thought on Goettingen is simply that I like it and I'm very glad to be here. That isn't a defensive statement: coming here took maybe a bit of an adjustment, but really a lot less than I'd expected. I think being in France for a little while this summer helped me adjust to being in a country where everyone around me speaks another language (although this time, I actually understand it, when I'm paying attention).

I'm fond of the physical space here. Rachel and I are in a dorm next to one part of the campus, in a residential-y area that's about a ten-minute walk from the main campus and the downtown area. Our rooms are enormous and newly renovated, each with its own bathroom, and there's one kitchen on each floor. Even the kitchens display German efficiency: each person has their own cupboard, with a key and a shelf of the refrigerator.

I didn't really mean to babble on about specific details of our dorm, like the water pressure- although let me just say that the water pressure here is fantastic, probably ridiculously so. I've learned not to turn the sink or the shower full-on, because that's just too much water. Anyway.

Right now we're taking a 3-week language course with other international students- mostly Europeans, but some from Latin America, and also some from Turkey and China and South Korea. Naturally, there a few interesting cultural differences. There's a Polish guy in our section, for example, who won't walk ahead of women through a door. I tried to hold a door open for him once (innocently, I promise- I wasn't trying to screw with him) and he got pretty confused and ended up holding it for me. I've meant to ask him about that, but I haven't really had the chance yet.

There are a couple of other things that it's been difficult to explain here. The structure of American universities is of course a lot different than that of the European ones, and Amherst's even more so. Yesterday, in the social sciences practical orientation, we learned about how everyone studies the social sciences in Goettingen: the structure, and the official methods that they use to study it. The teacher then asked everyone individually if that's how their university does it, and I was about the only one who said it wasn't. I don't think there's an official way we study political science at Amherst. Um. I kind of just take courses that interest me.

Politics is naturally another subject that's a little more difficult to discuss, especially in a foreign language. I've had people ask if I was Republican, so I've mostly been quick to assure everyone that yes, I know how awful and stupid Bush is, and yes, I dislike him immensely too. Still, I don't want to begin every political conversation with an apology. On one hand, I like the idea of foreigners realizing that not all Americans are ignorant and/or Republican; on the other, I don't know that trying to represent the 'positive side' of the U.S. is necessary or good. I'll find a balance.

The last thing to mention, right now, is how it's been speaking German all the time. I've been speaking enough German lately (even with Rachel, speaking mostly in German) that some of my grammatical formulations in English are starting to sound German. Or, when I talk about something in English that I normally talk about in German, I often start to say the German word instead of the English one. Not that there aren't opportunities to practice English- almost all the international students speak English better than German- but I'd rather stick to German.

Dias Deliciosos/Delicious Days

Again this semester, quite fortunately, I do not have any classes on Friday. Though Buenos Aires is still technically in winter, we have been having some deliciously warm weather. So, on Friday I woke up late and had tea and breakfast with my family. Our schedules don’t usually match up in the morning, so it was really fun to hang out with them. Afterwards, I decided to have a picnic in the park with my friends from the program. Everyone brought a little something and we had a great lunch in the park. While trying to think of ways to make money in Argentina without getting an official job (because it would be illegal under our immigration status), we decided to become musicians. We then composed a little song and performed it for our fellow park goers. I was supposed to be a dancer, but that didn’t work out that well because I was laughing so hard. We then headed over to the botanical gardens. The gardens were fabulous with many great sculptures, but it also had a strange amount of cats. In the gardens we found two guys playing guitar who shared their music and mate (a tea-like hot drink).

I then returned to my house for a short nap. Most people in Buenos Aires eat dinner sometime after 9pm, and my family usually eats around 9 or 9:30. It was really hard for the first couple of weeks, but I think my stomach is almost adjusted. I get to set the table now, and on occasion I even get to help cook. I don’t think my family is used to having students who help out at dinnertime, because they seemed very surprised at first. I still receive all the guess privileges—first pick, biggest portion, etc. I really enjoy helping them out, and I get to chat with my host sister while she prepares dinner.
This day we had an amazing dinner—noquis (pasta) with and onion cream sauce. I had celebrated my birthday on Saturday, but in another province of Argentina. My sister made this delicious brownie cake topped with dulce de leche[like caramel, but more delicious] and a meringue topping. My family sang happy birthday to me with half of the cake. My hostmama was really embarrassed that it was only half of the cake, but I insisted over and over again that it was fine. My family then sang like three different versions of happy birthday, including a fun spanglish version.
I have had an eye infection for like two weeks. I caught then infection from my host sister who caught it from her boyfriend, and my hostmama’s eyes were itching. When I blew out the candles I laughingly wished for a cure to la epidemia [epedemic]. Speaking of “La epidemia,” has now become a sickly ironic joke in our house. My hostabuela [grandmother] told me I should wish for a good-looking Argentine boyfriend. We all had a good laugh about both wishes.

Later that night I went to a reggae club with my girlfriends. The club was filled with mostly Argentines, and it was a very relaxed comfortable environment. While waiting in line for the bathroom, we met some European women. They couldn’t believe I was from the states, and one of them told me I was THE Argentine woman. I took this as a great compliment to end a great day.

Before I head off again here are some pictures I recently got from friends. I'll be leaving for Arusha to go on a 2-day safari at Lake Mnara and the Ngorongoro Crater and then to Moshi to hike around the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro. From there, we may head to Mwanza on Lake Victoria and then for a few days into Rwanda.


Me holding a baby like a Tanzanian Mama. You can tell from my real hair that this is a while back. I've realized lately that I haven't seen this sickly baby for weeks and wonder what happened to her.

Some kids we met at the Ngozi Crater Lake

Me and Julie at the crater

Tony shows off the beautiful Kaporogwe Falls

On the ferry, Julie and I emerge from our cabins to see the beach

View from the ferry

"One of Africa's great journeys"

Sorry for the super long post, but it’s been a while…

“One of Africa’s great journeys”

An approximate map of our travels

These simple words from a Tanzanian guidebook, which we misquoted as “greatest journey” led us to the MV Songea, a small cargo and passenger ferry, which travels overnight down the Tanzanian side of Lake Nyasa. Great can connote either something incredibly positive or something simply large and impressive. The first part of our adventures through Southern Tanzania was great in the first sense. The ferry ride down the lake epitomized the second sense of great.

With nothing pre-arranged but our bus ticket, we began our travels last Saturday at 6 AM on a Scandinavian Express bus, a more reputable bus company with comfortable seats, snacks, and weird old movies playing on a screen in the front. In Mbeya, 13 hours later we found a cheap hostel (we paid about 7 dollars per room for 2 rooms between 5 people). The next day, we woke up early and reveled in the chill air of the mountain town after Dar’s humid heat. Although tour companies were closed on Sunday, we found a guide who may have ripped us off a little, but didn’t rob or injure us (although he is the first Tanzanian I’ve met to like President Bush better than Obama) and he led us up a strenuous hill to the breathtaking Ngozi Crater Lake.

The next day, we moved on to Tukuyu, an even colder town. We explored the market until a strange man followed us declaring his love for Mzungu (my white friends) and Mchina (me of course). That night, hanging out at the hotel bar, we used our new favorite defense against predatory Tanzanians—tell them us 4 women are the one man, Tony’s wives. People seem skeptical, but because some Tanzanian tribes allow polygamy, they generally ask if they can have one of us. I sometimes worry a little that he’ll actually sell me someday.

From Tukuyu, we used a legitimate tour company for a change and took a private van to Kaporgwe Falls, where we ate a beans, rice, spinach, and chapatti in a cave behind the falls. Three of us decided to swim a little in the cold fresh water, but I had trouble breathing and swam to clutch rocks on the side of the pool. Meanwhile, our van driver tried to join us, but didn’t know how to swim. He grabbed on to my friend, who thought he was either teasing or attacking her. Luckily, Tony pushed her to the edge and helped the driver to safety, but we journeyed back in a more somber mood. I’m learning that there is a different concept of safety here. Many Tanzanians never learn to swim and yet have no fear of the water. In the van, my friend linked her arm in mine and I was grateful she was safe, but wished I hadn’t felt so powerless to help her when she was in danger.

After Tukuyu, the trip transitioned to the second definition of great. To catch the ferry at Itungi Port, we had to spend one night in the hot, dusty town of Kyela in a cheap hostel, which we now believe is rented by the hour. Noises of all sorts kept us up until late at night. The next morning, we negotiated a lift to Itungi Port. Before the boat ride, we prepared ourselves mentally for the adventure, the sketchy bathrooms, and being the only non-Tanzanians aboard, but not fully for the incredible sea sickness. Despite buying “first class tickets” so we were able to sit outside on the top floor of the ferry unlike most passengers, who ride in the belly of the ship, within 10 minutes of sailing, I was leaning over the side, willing myself not to feel ill. Within 3 hours, I had run to back of the boat, accidentally kicked a live chicken, thrown up over the edge, started feeling sick again, and gone to bed, where I spent most of the next 22 hours. All four of us girls either slept or felt sick the entire trip, while Tony tried to convince us that sea sick is a state of mind. It was exciting to peak out at night when we docked and watch whole villages come out to receive their weekly shipments of soda, sugar, soap, cement…etc…and local women wade in the water to sell cassava and fish to ferry passengers out of buckets attached to sticks. Otherwise, I laid in bed, hoping the boat wouldn’t be tipped over by a big wave while smelling our peanut butter that had fallen off the shelf, broken and spread all over the floor in water from a water bottle that also fallen and cracked.

We were delighted to finally dock at Mbamba Beach, a tiny town, where we ate cheep grilled corn, had no electricity, and were followed by crowds of children. I felt like the Pide Pipelin of Hamlin as we walked along the beach surrounded by 30 kids, who tried to hold our hands and sing for us. They were certainly never told not to talk to strangers.

It took us two days to bus home and the last bus we took back was an appropriate end to our adventure. We got back to Dar within 13 hours, the time the journey was supposed to last (punctual buses are unbelievable in Tanzania), but we drove so fast and stopped so rarely (as we drove through towns, local vendors would run to bus trying to sell grilled corn, cookies, nuts, drinks, and fruit through the bus windows, but as they got close, we would speed on past), that I spent the journey wondering whether I was trapped in the movie, “Speed,” and fearing that we would either drive off the edge of a cliff or tip over before returning to Dar. But more or less, we made it safely back and were pleased with our adventures, but also pleased to shower and sleep in our own beds that night.

I’m glad we found the courage to take a real adventure. The farther south we went, the less nice hotels, less running water, white people, and English-speaking Tanzanians we met. It made me glad to be able to speak a little Swahili and want to learn more.

Back in Dar, school won’t start until the end of September. I keep myself pretty busy playing at the orphanage, teaching English to wood carvers at Mwenge Market, studying Kiswahili, exploring Dar…etc…but I still feel like school should be starting soon. I’m hoping that I’m learning to relax a little and live with unstructured time, and am glad I’ll have time to travel some more before classes start. We’ll probably be heading out again sometime next week to hike around the base of Mt Kilimanjaro and take a short safari.

Yeah D-Sam! Thanks for writing.

Sorry again for the extra long post.

Hola From Buenos Aires

Hello Everyone,

Sorry I have been slacking on my part of this blog. I arrived in Buenos Aires on August 4th, and everything has been a whirlwind from then on.

I live with a host family, which I absolutely love. Everyday when I arrive home my host mother gives me a kiss and asks how my day was. My host sister Mariana is seventeen. Her english is much better than my Spanish and she helps me out when I really can´t communicate. My host Abuelita comes over a lot. She is always giving me extra portions of food and candy. But, for the life of her, she cannot remember I am a vegetarian. Being a vegetarian here is turning out to be rather difficult, especially in restraunts. My family cooks dinner for my every weekday night, and they have been super cool about the vegetarian thing. My HostMom always goes on and on about how good it is for health and how much she loves it ( and she is not being sarcastic). The other day I got to cook my own soy milenesa-which was super delicious after I figured it out. My host Mom tried, but she accidentally burnt it.

Cousins, sisters, nieces, and friends are always coming over. I love this because it reminds me of my own crazy and large family at home.


Everyone thinks I can speak Spanish because of my accent, which is fun. The other day this kid from my program revealed that he didn´t know NM was a state. I pronounced my name correctly, then he started speaking to me in Spanish. Then he asked me if I liked the American students and why my English accent was so good. I told him it was because I was from the US. Then I had a rather good laugh at his expense---pobrecito [poor guy]

My accent works really well in cabs, which is great because sometimes they rip you off if they think you aren´t from Argentina.

I have made friends with people from my program. My friends are a pretty good representation of geographic and racial diversity. Which is pretty rare for this program. Its pretty funny because I have been having reverse culture shock. I lived with people of color all summer, and now the program is almost all white `people. Funny. Its been lots of fun hanging out with my new friends, and we usually do most things together. My people don´t go out that often, but we usaually go out on the weekends. But, it is insane because people here stay out till at least 6 in the morning -eek!

I will write real, and reflective blogs more often- This is just a short intro to my life.

i would love to hear from you,
besos
denicia

Low-Budget Safari

Swahili class is finished this week and university classes don’t start until the end of September so one quick entry before I’m off on vacation. The others students from my program and I are going to visit the south and see Lake Nyasa. It should be less touristy than the north and a real adventure.

I peer out of the window of our rented Dhaladhala as sunlight first breaks over my first national park. I didn’t see any animals, just a hilly horizon filling with light over the acacia trees. We couldn’t see well out of the Dhaladhala windows and wished we were observing the scene from a jeep or truck, but I was still excited about the prospect of seeing giraffes, zebras, elephants, and lions in the wild. I slid the back window open as far as I could and hung my head into the cool morning air.

At first, those of us who had never been on safari jumped at each new animal citing, grabbing our cameras and running to the windows, but after a little while, we stopped taking pictures of ever swala or zebra, but we waited with bated breath to see a lion. I had to climb over a professor to take pictures, but I loved watching the graceful giraffes eat and the baby zebra play. Finally, we got stuck behind a crowd of jeeps full of Wazungus and Indians. We were able to join the throng and spot a sleeping male lion, which disappeared down a hill after a few minutes. Unfortunately, we had to wait another ten minutes for the other tourists to disperse.

If I’m able to afford it, I’m considering going on real safari up north, where I could sleep on the Ngorogoro crater and see the animals really close. Going on safari, even just to see animals, feel a little colonialistic. It is certainly not an authentic experience of a Tanzanian. We complain about paying higher prices than locals, but coming here no matter how hard we try to live the life, we’re able to do things locals can’t. However, going on a real safari may me a once in a life time opportunity. I guess we’ll see how much I have left after this week in the south.

Check out my friend, Rachel's, blog for more pictures:

suckitupandsmile.blogspot.com

Small Talk

View from a boat ride to a little island off the coast of Zanzibar

Tony, Conner, and me in the village on the other side of our Zanzibar beach hotel

Shosti- a Swahili slang term for a woman’s best female friend.

One morning, we were buying coffee and chai at the coffee shop near Swahili class and one of the employees taught my friend, Michelle, the word, Shosti. Since then, a group of us grab snacks and coffee almost daily.

When any of my friends go into the class, we have a conversation like this:

“Mambo shosti,” a female employee asks.
“Skopa shosti. (a slang response that elicits a laugh),” we reply.
“Habari za wikendi shosti? (how was your weekend),” another woman asks.
“Nzuri, na wewe shosti? (good and how are you?),” we ask back.
“Nzuri sana shosti (very good),” she replies.
“Baadaye shostis (later),” about five employees (including male ones) wave and shout.

In Tanzania, its all about greetings. They are the first lessons in every Swahili book. It’s perfectly acceptable to stop and ask strangers about them, their family, their day, their afternoon, where they are from, where they are going, what tribe they are, what’s their religion…etc…

Although I’m usually shy, sometimes I enjoy these easy chances to practice Swahili. One day, I stopped to buy fruit from Kennedy, my favorite fruit vendor. I asked him how he was and what his little son’s name was. When his wife walked up and tied the baby to her back in a kitenge, I told them how I wanted to carry a baby in the US like that. As I was leaving, he threw two tangerines in the bag with my mangoes.

It’s these moments that shape my life in Tanzania. After a month, I’ve learned to accept certain realities of life here. Almost everyday, I explain to at least one person that I’m not from China or Japan, avoid some man trying to hit on me (now I get to hear how cool my rasta braids are), and have some kid stare at me in terror when I greet them. But having a café full of employees call me best friend daily and getting delicious fruit free makes me love life here.

Zanzibar in Brief

I'll have a longer post soon, I'm just eager to show pictures. I hope it makes sense...I'm a little distracted with my first mild food poisoning. I tried to put up more pictures, but am giving up on the internet connection for now.

Zanzibar was breathtaking. From the narrow streets and intricate Arabic doors of Stonetown, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, to the delicious smells of the spice tour and the white sandy beaches, the island is amazing. It's not quite Tanzanian--there's actually an active independence movement, but really worth a visit. There is a much more valuable tourist industry here than on the mainland, other than maybe the safari circuit of the north. There are so many more Wazungu wandering around. Locals often greet visitors with "Jambo" and "Hakuna Matata" phrases rarely heard in Dar and probably never heard by locals. They say the "Swahili" terms tourists expect to hear. They put on a show, but its a profitable one.

One of our Spice Tour guides showing off a dye and me showing off my "Tracy Chapman hair."

One of the coolest things you can do on the "spice island" is go on a spice tour to see where they grow and sample ginger, saffron, cinnamon, vanilla, coffee, cardamom, and many fruits. I'm loaded with teas and spices to bring home. I also stocked up on Zanzibar scarves. The Muslim island has made an industry of lovely, light scarves that can cover your head.

A coconut tree climber singing "Jambo Bwana" and dancing for us on the spice tour

As for my hair, it took forever to get done, hurt for the first fews days, and took a while to get used to, but I think I like it. I'm a little uncomfortable getting called "Rasta" mainly because I once heard a Hampshire student rant about white people pretending to be Rastafarian and not understanding the religion or culture. I don't like pretending I'm anything I'm not...or I'd just tell people I'm Chinese and make it easier on myself. But I've decided to put aside my overly PC Black Studies major sensibilities and take things as they are while I'm here. So maybe I'm being a cultural appropriator, but I won't worry about it now. My friends have dubbed my hair "Tracy Chapman hair" and for the next month, I'll be rocking long, black, plastic braids.