Some pictures and an important question

I haven't had much time on-line for quite a while, so I'll do a better post later, but for now I want to add some pictures from Bagamoyo, a nearby coastal city, and cooking at my friend's homestay house and pose this question:

Should I get my hair braided with extensions?

My friend from Amherst, Jenny, is only studying here for the summer, but wants to get her done before going. It will take several hours, hurt, and probably look silly. But on the other hand, it will be cool to have long hair, last a month, and save shampoo. So, anyone comment ASAP and tell me--will I look awful? Is this culturally insensitive? Is it a waste of time?

Sunrise over the Indian Ocean

View from the top of the old colonial governor's house

Me grinding coconut on a mbuzi (goat), basically a stool attached to a sharpened end.

Jenny stirring while trying to avoid the coals and her housegirl instructs her.

Far from home

As I walked to the Royal Kitchen restaurant pit choo (a bathroom consisting of a hole to squat and pee in), I was struck by how far from home I was.

On Friday, after our weekly Swahili quiz, my friends and I waited by our usual Dhala stop, hoping to visit Karyako, a famous market and get lunch in town. Instead of a Dhala, we took a lifti. Two guys in a pickup truck stopped and we all piled in back. Unfortunately, I was wearing a Khanga around my waist with a safety pin, which opened as I jumped up. Getting out of the car at Mwengi Market was interesting. Other than the wardrobe malfunction, liftis generally beat taking crowded, sweaty Dhalas or Costas (buses). However, on this trip, we caught an almost empty Costa all the way to Karyako.

Karyako looked exactly like I imagined Dar. People in bright colors filled the narrow dirty streets. On either side, vendors sold fruit and practical products like mouse poison, rope, radios, clothes pins…etc…We looked around, eyeing restaurants, searching for somewhere with more variety than DARUSO. Finally, we find the Royal Kitchen, listed in our guide book. We had delicious Indian curries, pasta, and stir-fry but had to wait over an hour. We saw people come and go, but still we waited, while anxiously watching Al Jazeera news without sound, trying not to think about our hunger.

It was after the meal, when I saw myself in a mirror, sweaty, disheveled, with a pink and green khanga around my waist that I marveled at how bizarre peeing in a hole, hitchhiking, and ignoring street vendors would seem at home. After we wander around the market, buying fabric, fruit, and clothespins and sit on the Costa toward Mwengi, Rachel turns to me sleepily and says, “When we visit Arusha, let’s take a lifti all the way there.” I laugh, but the idea of riding ten hours in the back of a pick-up truck does sound better than a sweaty bus.

Happy Birthday to Nelson Mandela!

I mean just saying...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7513047.stm

More photos

My friend, Rachel, took these pictures:

Tony, Conner, me, and Julie

Near City Center

To see more check out her latest blog post.
http://suckitupandsmile.blogspot.com/2008/07/photo-test.html

DARUSO and other eating options

We eat 1-2 meals a day at DARUSO, the government subsidized cafeteria because its the cheapest, most convenient, and most vegetarian friendly site. You can eat ugali (stiff, sticky porridge) or rice and beans, greens, or peas for about 50 cents. They go easy on the toppings, but are obscenely generous with the whites (ugali or rice). I actually am glad to be vegetarian here because the meat generally looks tough, fatty, and unappealing.

But believe it or not, the diet here gets old fast. I'm learning to branch out. Outside the cafeteria, they sell fried foods like chipsi mayai (french fries cooked with eggs) and fruit (papaya, bananas, pineapple, and mango) and vegetables. The vegetable guy flirts with me and some of the other girls sometimes, but to get extra pineapple or avocado to top my eggs and pili pili sauce (hot sauce), it's worth it.

We've become fixtures at DARUSO. We know most of the staff by name and they know us. I'm Mega Kubwa, Rachel is Reche, Conner (a girl) is Kone, and Tony is Professor J (he once sarcastically introduced himself as Tanzania's most famous rapper). People have less problems saying Julie and Natalia. It's fun to chat with the staff, who laugh at our bumbling Swahili and questions about meals, but sometimes we attract attention of assorted locals, looking to talk to Wazunguus. We've had one guy, who doesn't live or work anywhere near the school, ask us to proofread letters and a young student sit by us and ask for my phone number so that he can take me to the swimming pool. To be fair, I met him when I stopped by the pool to find out how much it costs to swim, but I don't trust a man who hangs around one of the few locations on campus where it's acceptable for woman to show their legs.

The rare, best eating days, we have dinner with our program coordinator, Mama Leah, and Brown University pays. So far, we've had Ethiopian, Indian, and American food at nice Wazunguu restaurants for free. This weekend, I hope to try expensive Chinese food on Brown.

Hidden Swahili Words

By Megan Zapanta
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania


I've already shared some of these, but there are some new additions

Jenga- Means to build. A British girl who lived in Africa, Leslie Scott, created the game in the 1970s at Oxford.
(http://www.hasbro.com/games/family-games/jenga/default.cfm?page=Entertainment/History)
Jamba- Means to fart.
Therefore Jamba Juice = fart juice. I think a coincidence.

Hakuna Matata- no worries (not so hidden)
Pumba- warthog
Rafiki- friend
Simba- lion

Mufassa doesn't mean anything

Learning

By Megan Zapanta
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

Swahili class sometimes makes me crazy. When the teacher, a young linguistics grad student, can’t understand enough English to figure out what we’re asking her, or she draws unnecessary detailed pictures on the board because they are somehow vaguely connected to the lesson, I tune out.

But class is getting better. We’re going to get a new teacher and I understand more and more. Best yet, for the first time, I saw serious research potential in Tanzania. Each day, a different student presents a short lecture in Swahili. Today, an African history grad student from Stanford talked about the history of the University of Dar es Salaam and the student protests that sparked national change in the late 1960s. To write her thesis, she interviewed socialist intellectuals now living in Canada who taught at the university after Tanzania gained independence. She told me that she is now considering researching Chinese Maoist connections to Tanzanian socialism. I see so much to love in a topic like that…post-colonial development, Afro-Asian connections, African research, maybe some social activism…I’m really eager to start classes and take “race, class, and ethnicity” and an “economic history of Tanzania.” I thought I was just here for fun, and my real intellectual interest was in US or Caribbean Afro-Asian social activism, but maybe I did come to the right place.

Ok, nerd rant complete. On to girly, baby-loving rant...

I had a hard time leaving the orphanage today. They taught us how to carry babies on your back wrapped in a Khanga. I’m sure people would protest if I held a baby tied to my back like that in the US, but it feels so secure to have a baby tied to you so close that you can feel its heart beat. We all took turns carrying a one-year-old girl. This baby looks so sickly with her extended stomach that she mostly toddles around moaning and crying. I pick her up and hold her close to me and she often stops. Some of the other kids have taken to handing her to me whenever she whines. I’m afraid of getting sick by touching these kids so much, but once I pick up the baby and she stops crying, I never want to put her down.

But no, Kristin, I will not keep the baby and bring it home to you.

I love how eager people are to teach us things. At the orphanage, adults and kids gathered around to show us how to carry water on our heads. We failed miserably, but I’m going to learn someday. When we asked, they thought Americans didn’t know how to carry anything, even in our hands. I told one of the girls that I want to learn to cook, so I think I’ll be getting a lesson soon. They'll make a real Tanzanian woman.

Monkey (Tumbili)

By Megan Zapanta
Dar es Salaam

Tumbili

***NOTE: I've spent forever trying to download this one awful picture of a monkey. Stupid internet. ***


By the way, I see monkeys (tumbili) and baboons (nyani) all the time around campus. Just some trivia.

My mom tells me that my grandfather reads this, so an announcement for him: Morfar, if you and Mom come visit me, I will teach the kids at the orphanage to sing in Danish for you (all I know is "Den Lille Ole").

African Hospitality

By Megan Zapanta
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

There’s a group of Princeton students who usually volunteer at the orphanage, but their program was touring Zanzibar, so last Friday, Julie and I returned alone. We sat down with the kids and taught them to sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” each with a few little children crawling on our laps. But within a half-hour, a woman brought in a huge round tray of pilau (a mix of spiced rice, meat, potatoes) with vegetables on top. She sat down to eat with us. We had just eaten lunch, but realized we could not reject the offering and ate heartily. It was the best food I had eaten in Tanzania. I even tasted the meat for the first time in 2.5 years. It was a bit tough, but well flavored. When I paused, the woman asked me if I was on a diet so Julie and I ate until most of the plate was cleared. I’m still wondering where the meat comes from. The woman says the kids eat meat 3-4 times a week, which is very rare in this country. All the same, many of the kids are HIV positive and have the extended of bellies of malnourishment. A few little kids sleep on the floor all afternoon, often sick with malaria.

While we ate, we talked to the woman who brought the food in Swahili. Dressed in cloud pajama bottoms, with a yellow khanga wrapped around her waste, she seems to work as a nurse. She is a Muslim (it’s a Muslim orphanage), but she explained to us that in Tanzania, Muslims and Christians live peacefully together. She told us how she loved Tanzania, love the first president, Julius Nyerere and the current president, Kikwete. I envied her simple faith in her country, despite its shortcomings and poverty, but I could never feel the same way about my own, despite the privileges of living there. I wonder if I could ever believe in anything as fully as Tanzanians believe God and their country.

We went to church on Sunday in a square white building across the street from the campus mosque. We didn’t understand the sermon, but I loved the sheer Tanzanianess of the service. The choir sang several times, and for while the children’s choir came up and sang a few songs. With synthesized beats behind the songs, joy and hope in God filled the service. I loved watching people walk in dressed in brightly colored khangas and kitenges. I hope in a few months, I’ll be able to go and understand the words, but last week it wasn’t necessary, to appreciate the hope.

A few pictures

Natalia, Tony, and Julie

Mwengi Market

Laudry outside my balcony

At an orphanage

By Megan Zapanta
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

“Mambo,” I smiled nervously at the small child in a green striped shirt and protruding belly at the orphanage.

“Poa,” he smiled back.

Encouraged, I told him my name, ask him his, and within minutes forgot his name again.

I follow the other American volunteers inside a small room within the enclosed courtyard. I don’t see any other adults supervising, but one of the volunteers hands me a tiny boy, who clung to me for the next hour. Quickly small pockets of kids gathered around each volunteer. The kids asked us questions, taught us games and songs, and clamored to touch us, pet us, and sit in out laps. Some boys played with my friend, Jenny’s long black hair while she watched girls play hand games.

Two ten-year-old girls particularly clung to me, both had khangas draped around their wastes. One of them was albino. For some reason, Tanzania has the highest percentage of albinos in Africa. I saw three at Saba Saba. Albinism in Tanzania has lately received media attention because of President Kikwete’s efforts to stop killings of albinos, who are often believed to have magical properties. In the future, I want to watch her more carefully and see how she is treated by the other children and directors.

I had nothing interesting to say or do with them, but they each had me write my name on their hands and prided themselves on knowing me, calling me their friend. They taught me Swahili songs and Tanzanian hand games and I taught them “Down by the Banks,” but they were simply blissful to just see and touch the volunteers.

I’ve never volunteered with a more receptive population. I could teach them whatever silly kids game I wanted, talk to them about anything. They are simply grateful for attention. The people who run the orphanage seem nice; one pulled out a children’s Swahili book and tried to teach me Swahili. But I just don’t think there are enough resources and staff for all the kids. I’m definitely coming back regularly. Talking to the kids helped me practice my Swahili more than class ever does.

On a random note, people here pronounce “Megan” as “Mega.” My friend told the man who sells fruit at the cafeteria, that “Mega” means “kubwa sana” (very big). Now I can’t order fruits without him shouting “Mega Kubwa” at me. I’m glad that Big Megan wasn’t a childhood nickname or I would develop a complex.

Saba Saba

By Megan, Dar es Salaam

Tanzania has an inordinate amount of national holidays. July 7, Saba Saba (seven seven) is a worker’s day, with a national holiday and a big international trade fair. Against the advice of Mama Leah, our program coordinator, who said it was boring, we took a bus and Dhala all the way to the fair.

The countries I saw represented aside from Tanzania, include Iran, China, and Pakistan, but as the other students in my program pointed out, everything seemed a little tacky except for the fabrics, jewelry, and carving. Still, I bought a beautiful blue Kitange for my mom, heard music, and watched roller skaters carrying blue kite in a circle (this seemed to be a show, but I didn’t quite understand), so all-in-all, it was worth the trek. Of course, the Coca-Cola chairs at every restaurant were a reminder of the ever-present forces of American consumerism, even in a supposedly socialist country.

But my more momentous celebration of this worker’s day was doing laundry. I never again want to hear anyone at Amherst complain about laundry. I lugged my clothes from 5^th floor (in Tanzania, they start counting at 0, so really the 6^th floor) and across a courtyard to a water spiget. I soaked the clothes in soap for a half hour, before individually scrubbing each piece of clothes by hand. The nice thing was, my incompetence was a conversation starter. I chatted with a nice Tanzanian journalism student in Swahili and English after she observed that this seemed different for me (I think she meant difficult).

I appreciated the chance to talk in Swahili because I get frustrated always speaking English with the group. When we’re in public others speak more quickly than me because my Swahili is the weakest, so I’m studying hard, but not getting enough practice. Hopefully, I’ll get more confident soon.

Happy Independence Day!

By Megan, Dar es Salaam Tanzania

As we turned the corner off of Old Bagmoyo Road to the driveway of the American Embassy, the lawn changed from dirt and thin native grass to manicured crab grass. Empty blue planters decorated with white stars lined the road. We approached a small building at the gate, where we saw other Wazungus lining up, waiting to have their bags inspected. A Tanzanian security guard holds the door open. We chat with him in Swahili, but no one else does.

Inside the embassy, a friendly middle-aged white woman whose husband works at the embassy, hands us programs and tries to give us American flags and flag pins. I look at the program, glance at the activities which include the ambassador’s speech, a pie eating contest, a cake walk, henna, a patriotic photo stand, a bouncy castle, a dunking booth and fireworks, and then skip to the food prices. 8,500 shilingi for a large plate with a hamburger or chicken and a hotdog, coleslaw baked beans and fruit salad or 6,500 shilingi for a smaller version. By American standards, about 8 dollars isn’t shocking, but in Tanzania, these prices seem exorbinant.

“Where do the profits go?” one of the other students on my program asks.

We walk past a stylized copy of the Statue of Liberty toward a big compound with an open courtyard, listening to a Tanzanian jazz band play Norah Jones. All over the manicured lawn, families picnic. Palm trees shade the courtyard. A few students buy soda from Marines and then we sit on the lawn to people watch.

Most of crowd is white, although there seem to be both Black Americans and Tanzanians and a few multi-racial families. Watching families in summer dresses and shorts and t-shirts, eating hotdogs and playing carnival games, I wonder what it’s like to grow up with such a different standard of living from most of the country. With a nice house, car, security system, running water, and international schools for their kids, how much do their lives resemble those of real Tanzanians? I haven’t been in the country long enough to feel homesick. This display feels artificial, out of place. The other students in my program talk about the advantages of retiring to a place like Tanzania, where on a relatively low American budget, you can live quite comfortably. I can’t say that it’s better to live with our standard of living and consumption rate in the US, but I think still living like an American in a third world country, I would feel lonely and guilty. I think I would constantly feel confronted by why I deserve to live like that because of where I was born. I'm even aware and uncomfortable of the luxury of me studying here. I need to make the best of it.

A little disappointed, we don't wait for fire works. Instead we looking for a shopping center someone read about in a guide book, hoping there may be an affordable restaurant. Along the street, I see a man cooking skewers of meat on a barbeque. For the first time that day, I’m a little nostalgic for home. I realize, that I don’t associate Fourth of July cookouts with hamburgers or hotdogs and potato salad, as much as the skewers of marinate meat my Filipino grandfather always barbeques.

Writing under a mosquito net

By Megan, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

Here goes my first post:

We jump onto the almost empty Dhaladhala at the Mwengi Market and wait until about 20 people have crammed into the large van on our way back from exploring Dar es Salaam and shopping a little. Strangers squeeze together and still people crouch or stand in the aisles. I keep getting pushed into an older man who, unbothered continues to read his Tanzanian newspaper. After the van fills up, we begin to drive with a chonda (conductor) hanging out the window shouting the destination to pedestrians. After a few minutes he turns around to collect the fee of 250 shillingees (less than a quarter) from each passenger. A woman with a baby tied to her back by a khanga (these are wonderful pieces of fabric and will someday be the subject of an entire post) sits on my other side. I smile at the baby, but it just stares back.

Like I expected, all over Dar, kids stare at us. Julie’s blond hair must seem particularly strange. Looking like mini adults in shorts and t-shirts or tiny tailored dresses (tailors are cheaper than new clothes here), they sometimes follow us, demanding gifts. Some men call after us, shouting, “sister.” Behind our backs I hear people murmur or shout “wuzungu” or “wanderer,” the word they use for foreigners. Still, we have never felt threatened and on the campus, people are always friendly and polite. So far, we have been lucky to meet nice people who have helped us navigate the city. On our second day, we searched for a market by dhaladhala, got stuck in traffic for hours until after dark, and passed the market. We wouldn’t have noticed nor found our way back if one man hadn’t led us to the right dhaladhala.

I'm having to reinvent my identity here. I figured everyone would consider me white, but when I tell them I’m American they question me, telling me I look like I’m from Puerto Rico, Mexico, Korea, or Japan. The program coordinator’s husband actually bowed to me when I tried to shake his hand. He said “Japanese style.” I just smile and say “Baba yangu Filipino” and they seem satisfied, but then they usually ask if my mother is Mmarekani. To them, white and American are the same.

Explaining my religion is more difficult. I once tried to explain to a university guard who asked me what my religion was that I didn’t have one and the only word he could come up with was “Pagani.” Aetheism and agnosticism don’t seem to exist. Although many different religions coincide, predominantly Christian and Muslim, most people believe in some sort of God. Another girl on my program suggested telling them that I’m Buddhist because they’ll think I’m Chinese anyways and then I won’t have to explain why I’m not going to church. Instead, I’m choosing the half-truth and calling myself Catholic.

Staying here only a short time reminds me of how easy education and life is in the United States. The man who helped us navigate the Dhaladhalas told me he hoped it was easier to study in my country. Dar, the former capital, is the largest city in Tanzania, yet the buildings are dilapidated and many university dorms lack running water (like mine for example). Coming from the US, you adjust, you learn to bathe from a bucket, but you’re shocked at how many more facilities and recourses US citizens consume everyday.

After a few days of riding the Dhaldahals and city buses, I’m beginning to get the hang of it, to get used to cramming myself next to strangers and the smell of sweat. But I’m not quite a native. When we get to our stop at the university from the Mwengi Market, I jump out, knocking into the door. The door fell off its track in front and I feel horrible for breaking it. But the Chonda pops it back into place and they drive on down the left side of the bumpy road, Swahili hip hop music still blasting.