"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.