Recently I may or may not have had my first bout of malaria, and I definitely got to climb up cellular towers in rural Tanzania.
The sickness happened thusly. And as a warning this may only be interesting to medical students and family. Actually, it might only be interesting to me. Anyway -- A few weeks ago I participated in the HAPO sports day. HAPO, you may remember is an orphans drop-in center where I have some friends doing volunteer work. Sports day is Friday. Usually it involves the boys going to play football (soccer) and the girls going to play net-ball (basketball where you don't run with the ball). On that particular Friday the boys' festivities also involved me, playing barefoot. Despite never having played much football, because I am -- you know -- post-pubescent, I think I made a pretty good showing, although it did involve finding a few cow-pies the tactile way and jamming my right big-toe pretty hard.
A few days later I noticed that my toe was a little red and tender, and that I had actually separated a decent part of my big-toe nail from the nail-bed. I cut off said nail, and went on with my life. The next day, the toe got mad. It was inflamed and there was seepage. A few hours later, I was somewhat alarmed when I got up from my desk and felt an uncomfortable lump on my right inner thigh in spot with vague, but nonetheless undeniable, proximity to my crotchal area. I felt only marginally better when I realized that it was an enlarged, tender, inferior superficial inguinal lymph node, and confirmed by internet search that these nodes do, indeed drain the toe. Several hours later, I began to feel general malaise, and that night became feverish.
I tend to be the type who grins and bears it, but even I was impressed by the quick progression of these symptoms, and as a medical student couldn't help but think about gram-positive bacteria flinging themselves into my blood stream and trying to make themselves a new home on my heart valves. I decided it was time to self treat and started cephalexin (first generation cephalosporin -- good gram-positive coverage). Although it was after pharmacy hours, one of the HAPO kids had this antibiotic handy, because a local doctor had prescribed it sometime back when she was having some stomach problems. After taking a dose or two, she spoke with her physician parents who informed her that, while it might do wonders for....say.....an infected toe, it had little chance of helping her stomach. I volunteered my toe.
After a rather restless night, I awoke afebrile, feeling better, and nerdily excited to return to the world of clinical medicine. I figured I had a pretty good story for toe-related systemic illness, but inasmuch as every fever, headache, sniffle and arthralgia here is tantamount to a diagnosis of malaria, I decided I had nothing to lose by getting a blood smear done at the hospital that day. And to my surprise, it was positive! I had 4 parasites per 500 WBCs.
So Huh. I really think the toe made me sick, and I was already feeling better before taking any antimalarials, but what about the parasites?
It's true that Africans with a lifetime of accumulated immunity can often have a few parasites in their blood and be asymptomatic. And while I have been quite proud of my immune system this year, I think it would be a bit premature to classify my immunity as African. I am also on weekly prophylaxis, and symptoms can sometimes be minimized by prophylaxis. Still, a friend of mine here was on prophylaxis and was quite ill with 4 parasites on her blood smear. Maybe, after almost a year, with my dislike of mosquito-repellent, and aided by ongoing weekly prophylaxis, I've built a little tolerance. Cool! I get to say both that I had malaria, and that I may have built up a bit of immunity!
Oh. I ended up treating for both malaria and toe, and have felt fine ever since that first night.
__________________________
On an unrelated note, we had a site visit recently from Ericsson, the mobile phone company. They're partnering with MVP to improve mobile communications technology throughout project sites. I was called upon to accompany the Ericsson guy through the cluster on his "Drive Test." While extremely important for the future of our communications system, this was not a particularly exciting job, as it involved sitting in the car for 10 hours and driving to disparate points in the cluster while he took measurements with fancy equipment.
The cool part, though, was that we also stopped at cellular towers throughout the cluster so that he could climb up and inspect the specifications and installation of various antennas and equipment. And I got to go with him! I've always been a sucker for climbing things, so this was a special treat.
Here are some of the pictures. I also took a video, which I'm trying to upload, but I'm having internet troubles like before. It might show up eventually.
And the conversation continues. I've found it interesting. I hope you guys do too. I'm interested on what people think about my reflection on racism too.
__________________________
A Russian Lady Whose Name I've now decided to edit out Wrote:
>
>Hi! Thank you so much for your nice attitude and for
>your reply. This is really nice of you.
>
>
>As to my swahili, I started to learn it and then I
>stopped, I know
>a lot of different words and phrases and even tenses. I
>am planning to continue learning it, so then I will be
>able to speak it in Tanzania.
>
>Actually I dont think that Tanzanians fell themselves
>uncomfortable in Russia, because here the workers of
>the Embassy are sheltered.They live in the center of
>Moscow in very nice appartements with numerous rooms,
>the country pays for all :food, accomodation, gasolin,
>lunches, tickets, mobile phones. the get salary in the
>amount of USD 6500-10000( you are living in Tanzaina
>and you now what this money is for their
>country)Actually for Russia and even for Moscow it is
>an incredibly high salary( for comparison the ordinary
>salary is 1000 Euro, 2000 Euro is a very good salary
>for young people.) So actually they ( Tanzanian
>diplomats) they sit and save money.
>
>Money, you know is the cause of evil. And this money
>give them the feeling that they are superior, and at
>the same time they are big bosses, and all this which
>was inside in them- their hatred towards white which
>colonized them and made them slaves.This may be
>somehow hiiden in those with whom you leave together
>with in Tanzania- but give them more power or much
>money and you will see how their attitude will
>change.
>
>
>Please, don t think that I am a racist or I am negative
>towards Africans. No, still I think that there are
>people among Tanzanians who are not so prejudiced,
>more modern in their attitude and not so concentrated
>on the past. That is the reason why I inspite of all
>want to go Tanzania.To find other attitude from what I
>have seen in Russia.
>
>Sorry , sorry for my speculations which may seem boring
>to you.
>But it is really a pleasure for me to receive replies
>from you!
>
>
>I saw on TV that you have floods in Tanzania and it is
>the season of rain now.Is this true?
>
>
>Thank you for all.
>
>Have a nice week!
>
I replied:
The paragraph that stood out for me in your last emails was this one:
">And this money
>give them the feeling that they are superior, and at
>the same time they are big bosses, and all this which
>was inside in them- their hatred towards white which
>colonized them and made them slaves.This may be
>somehow hiiden in those with whom you leave together
>with in Tanzania- but give them more power or much
>money and you will see how their attitude will
>change."
To be honest, I think that is a rather racist comment. But don't worry, I think everyone in the world is a little bit racist. I think that the human mind works by recognizing patterns of experience and using them to predict the future. So when you only know well-paid, condescending Tanzanians, you can't help but use that information to inform your world-view more generally. The same thing happens to me in the US. For instance, in New York City (where I live), the more dangerous neighborhoods, those where you're more likely to me robbed, tend to be filled with minorities -- either african americans or hispanics or whomever. So without thinking, your mind gets used to associating being in a neighborhood filled with a certain kind of people with being in danger. I don't think that my chance of being robbed in that neighborhood has anything to do with the inhabitants being of a certain race, I think it has to do completely with their socio-economic situation, but that doesn't stop my mind from making connections. I think that's how prejudice starts and that racism follows close behind.
Anyway. I don't think that within Africans or Tanzanians there is a sense of superiority or anger about past colonialism and slavery that is hidden from me, or will bubble up if they are given a position of social superiority. In my job this year, I have worked with the upper class Ghanians and Tanzanians. They are rich Africans, many of whom have pHDs and have been educated abroad, and I have never experienced anything like you describe. In fact, in a year in Africa, I've almost never heard anyone discuss slavery -- and I don't think it's because they're avoiding the subject, I think the subject is much less important to Africans in Africa than it is to their descendants who were displaced by the practice and now live as an underclass in unwelcoming societies. Actually, if you read the history of the slave-trade in Africa, you'll learn that Africans were very much complicit in the trade as slave suppliers, and also that the practice of slavery in Africa long pre-dated white slavers (though clearly white demand hugely increased the existence of slavery in Africa), and continued well after the international slave-trade was outlawed. Unlike Africans who were taken as slaves, Africans who remain in Africa may have been part of the system. So you don't hear them throwing a lot of blame around. This is not to say that the white world isn't guilty of terrible terrible crimes or that their demand for slaves wasn't key in building the system in Africa. It just that, to be honest, it's less of an issue in Africa than it is in ex-slave-owing countries. There is far more love of America amongst rural Africans, who often hold onto the idea of the American Dream, than there is amongst most minority populations in the US (whose ancestors may have been brought there by slavery).
Anyway. Just something to think about. I'm sure there was some reason that the Tanzanians you worked with were unpleasant and acted the way they did. And I'm sure it had something to do with race, because it is impossible to live above race within a society that is still overtly concerned with race. But I'm also sure that they acted that way because of their individual life experience of race, and not because they belong to a certain race; not because they are African.
Right. On another topic! It is the rainy season here. In my region of the country the rains this year have been moderate. Not enough for any big flooding, but I haven't heard much about the rest of the country.
Please don't think that I'm trying to accuse you of anything. I'm sure I'm a little racist at times, and I'd rather have people tell me about it clearly than avoid the subject. I'm interested in what you think.
Ben
You may have heard me talk about Couchsurfing.com before. It's a global hospitality network where you sign up and offer to let some travelers crash at your home for free, and in exchange you are given the right to use the worldwide network for your own travels. It's a good deal. I got an interesting message the other day. Here's the email exchange:
>>**************** Wrote:
>>>INUSERNAME: *******
>>>GENDER: Female
>>>AGE: 28
>>>LOCATION: Russia - Moscow City - Moscow
>>>
>>>
>>>I am interested in surfing your couch!
>>>
>>>Hello, my name is *****. I am from Russia.I want to come
>>>to Tanzania and see Tanzanian life because I have
>>>worked with Tanzanians for some time.Probably it will
>>>be in September. can you tell me is the place where
>>>you live far from Dar-Es Salaam?How much money
>>>approximately the person needs to spend a week in
>>>tanzania. don not worry I will spend at your place
>>>only 1-2 nights if you allow.
>>>
>>>Thank you in advance.
>>>Best regards,
>>>
>>>*****
>>>
>Benjamin Bodnar Wrote:
>>Hello!
>>
>>I'm sorry to say that I will no longer be in Tanzania
>>in September. I'm moving back to the US at the end of
>>June. Sorry!
>>
>>To answer your questions, however...
>>Tabora is extremely far from Dar es Salaam. I don't
>>know the distance exactly, but it takes about a day by
>>train, 14+ hours by bus or a 2+ hour plane flight
>>(which is a bit expensive).
>>
>>The cost of living in Tanzania is quite variable
>>because the east and the north are very touristy and
>>have a lot of international traffic, while the west
>>(where I am) doesn't see much international money, and
>>therefore is much cheaper. But to estimate -- a full
>>meal costs 1-2 dollars. at a very touristy or fancy
>>place it might be as expensive as 6-10 dollars. A beer
>>(large bottles) is between 1 and 2 dollars. Out where I
>>am, rent starts at 10$ per month (for a single room,
>>sharing all facilities with several tanzanian
>>families, pit latrines, wood-burning stove) and can go
>>as high as a few hundred dollars for a nice house with
>>ammenities. Rent in Dar itself can be much higher. A
>>hotel costs from a few dollars a night (for a room
>>with shared facilities) up to quite expensive (there
>>is good demand from wealthy folks coming for safaris
>>and such).
>>
>>hope that helps! let me know if I can help answer any
>>other questions.
>>
>>ben
>>
************** Wrote:
>Hi! Thank you for your reply!Can you help me with one
>more thing:
>
>I want when I come to Tanzania to go to some wildlife
>reserve or farm and spend my time taking care of
>animals:lions, cheetahs. this is kind of volonteering
>activities. is it possible to make in Tanzania,may be
>you can reccomend me somebody who deals with this.
>
>
>And 1 more question- what is the attitude in Tanzania
>towards white people? Is it dangerous to travel in
>Tanzania for white people on their own?because I heard
>that Africans are still not so friendly, because of the
>past.Are there many white people living?
>Excuse me if my questions seem to you strange. simply I
>want to knoow before I go there.
>
>Thank you.
>
>Best regards,
>*****
I wrote:
While there is a large amount of wildlife viewing (on safari) in Tanzania (including the famous serengeti national park), I've never heard of any locations or organizations with which you can work directly with animals. Rather, they are protected in their wild habitats away from humans. Aside from an internet search, I'm afraid I wouldn't have any information on such volunteering opportunities.
Generally, African's are spectacularly friendly and hospitable people. They tend to be far more generous and welcoming with their meager resources than Europeans or Americans who are much richer. The only racism that you're likely to come into contact with is REVERSE racism -- people will want to be friends with you just because you are white. People will assume that you are rich because you are white. The only real danger is from petty crime such as robbery. This is more likely in cities because so many people are desperately poor, and (as I said) if they see a white person they assume that they have money. That said, I've been living in Africa for almost 10 months now (first in Ghana and now in Tanzania) and I've never had any problems. Still, you have to be cautious about walking around alone at night in certain places.
People have many prejudices about Africa, and I think you'll learn that most of them are wrong. Africans are poor, yes, but they are wonderful people and they value the very same things as other people around the world.
And there aren't many white people living in Tanzania (relative to moscow, that is). But Tanzania is a very touristy place. So in some places they're used to seeing white people coming through, while in other places--places that tourists don't go, like where I am in western Tanzania--white people are a novelty. Children will laugh and point and yell "Mzungu" which means white person in swahili. Some will want to come touch you, while others will be scared and run away.
it's quite an experience. Though it's tiring. Nowhere in africa will you be able to go unnoticed. nowhere will you be able to be anonymous.
be prepared!
ben
______________
And so. As I reflected on how much of a mystery Africa and Africans still are to most of the world, and basked in my own self-assuredness and worldliness, she sent another email....
______________
Hi, Benjamin.
Thank you for the information that you have sent me, it
is very useful and interesting for me.
I want to be honest with you- the reason I want to go
to Tanzania is that I worked in Tanzanian Embassy in
Moscow for quite a long time.So as you can understand
I know a lot about Tanzanians.
During my work there I have encountered different
things such as African time ( pole-pole), and extreme
interest to white women, the last actually was not a
good experience. And really there was some kind of
negative attitude to white people.
Now when I work in another place, I still want to go to
Africa. And see it with my own eyes. I want to find
more good in Africans that I have seen before, to know
better their culture ,traditions.
Thank you ,
*****
________________________
So. Again. Be careful what you think you know (and what others don't).
She's right about pole-pole, which means, essentially, slowly-slowly. And she's right about the love of white women. It's part of that reverse racism, and the fact that with almost statistical certainty, a white person in Africa is a rich person. To snag a white person, then, is to become a rich person. But that's only part of it. Volumes could be written about post-colonial standards of beauty (and the omnipresent advertisements for skin-lightening cocoa-butter creams).
Still, I stand by what I said about African's generally.
It makes me wonder what was going on in Moscow. After all, I think I'd probably be unhappy if I moved from Tanzania to Moscow, which is not generally cited as a bastion of racial egalitarianism.
thoughts?
I wonder if it turns out that no matter how long you travel, you're still wholly vulnerable to being ripped off. That might be true from a certain point of view, but, from another perspective, eventually you transcend graft.
I just finished up a week in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania's coastal capital. I was there to brainstorm with some techie colleagues on our upcoming plan to create a mobile-phone-based guidance program for Community Health Workers (CommCare), meet folks at any NGO that was courteous enough to return my emails, and show up unannounced at the others whose Tanzanian receptionist prefer to hang up on me than speak English or find someone who can.
I also went to Zanzibar.
After a week of meetings which were quite educational--in the Socratic sense by which Socrates felt himself to be wiser than most men only because he knew exactly how little he knew--I was ready for a bit of a break. And so I arrived at the Dar ferry port, the tourist bottleneck, the gauntlet through which all those heading to Zanzibar must pass.
I knew there was a 1 o'oclock ferry, but because I was coming from work meetings I arrived just after 1. The ferry was still there, but the engine was running and it was clear that it would leave shortly. In my haste to be aboard that vessel, I allowed myself to be steered into a ticket office and ripped off. But here is the question -- was I ripped off?
For non-residents, a ticket on one of the fast ferries is 35-40 USD. As I was paying in Tanzanian shillings (roughly 1200 per USD often with a worse exchange rate at touristy spots) I had already decided I was ready to pay about 50,000 (given a little rounding up -- unfortunately, you have to buy your ticket through one of a number of ticketing companies intent on charging you as much as possible).
So they said: 50,000, quick the boat is leaving!
I paid it, and I made it onto the boat.
I made it onto the boat and quickly realized that this was not one of the fast ferries, this was the one remaining Slow Ferry. The Flying Horse which, as Lonely Planet notes, does not fly at all. The price for the the slow ferry is about 20$. So they got me. I paid double what I should have.
In contrast, when I came back from Zanzibar, I arrived at a ticket office without time pressure and was able to use my Volunteer Visa, and as much Swahili as I could muster (Swahinglish, really) to get the resident price for my return trip -- 19,000 on a Fast Ferry. Though the fast ferry still took about 2 hours while the slow ferry had taken only about 3 hours.
So was I ripped off? I paid what I expected to pay, and got on the boat that I wanted to get on. So what's the big deal? I think that it has something to do with that feeling of being bested. But that's just ego. The more difficult, but undoubtedly more admirable thing to do, is to recognize your privilege for what it is and give more than you have to, knowing that you'll still be privileged tomorrow.
A colleague of mine -- Neal, an American computer science pHD plus MPH who is working on CommCare and has spent much of the last few years of his life in East Africa -- occasionally refers to his spending habits as O.T.I.: OverTipping International. It's happened that we've haggled for a bit for a taxi fare, and then as we're dropped off he'll throw in a few extra thousand anyway. I've also heard him referring to overspending as a an Income Generating Activity, a term lifted from the development world where it generally refers to small-scale business alongside subsistence activities. 'It's okay. It's an income generating activity.'
I can't help but think that he's onto something. After all, with such a mindset, could he ever be ripped off?
Unfortunately, I don't know that it's that simple. Because who is getting the money? The taxi driver and the tour operator? What about the orphan and the farmer? They have no services which we privileged would pay at all, much less overpay. It's somehow unsatisfying to give a few extra dollars to a tourist tout, when I would never reach into my pocket for as much money when I pass a beggar. So if I haggle with the tout and toss only coins to the homeless, where does that leave me?
Occasionally getting ripped off and doing less good than I probably should.
___________________
Next topic -- another gem to add to the international cast of characters which I've been developing.
It turns out that I decided to visit Zanzibar at the beginning of the Monsoon. It wasn't so bad, really, but it rained on and off. My first night in Stone Town...
...the sky opened as I wandered the skewed streets. Inasmuch as I am water resistant, I decided to hoof it to the indian vegetarian restaurant I had passed earlier. I arrived soaked and ready for Thali. And a good Thali it was. Mango pickle. Mmmmmm. That moment was brought to you by the fact that as I write this I'm hungry.
Anyway. Being trapped by the monsoon turned out to be quite entertaining, as I was trapped with an interesting gentleman. His name was Steel.
Steel is a 60 year old brit stonemason who has spent the last 40 years restoring ancient monuments and is currently managing a UNESCO project to reclaim one of Stone Town's ailing sea walls.
He looked a bit like an aging Mr. Clean, and it was impossible to ignore the two hairs which sprung near perpendicularly from the tip of his reddening nose.
His father was a coal miner, and a unionist. He espoused socialist sympathies, and admitted that he enjoyed telling Africans that he had not had shoes until the age of 12 (which, of course, they don't believe).
Over a growing tally of beers (I drank Safari, he Kilimanjaro), he professed the sort of paradoxical dislike for the UK which I generally reserve for various things American. We discussed rambling topics relating to philosophy, stonemasonry, politics, working in Africa, and his recent brush with gangrene following a scorpion sting in Tajikistan and treatment in a Russian Military hospital for an "allergic reaction" which ended when a German medical student recognized rampant tissue necrosis and got him airlifted to Geneva. He also asked for advice on wound care. I was happy to oblige.
Karibu Africa.
______________________
Also: never let it be said that you can't learn something at any time. There is genius everywhere.
Have you ever been annoyed by way your soap gets all waterlogged and slimy in it's holder or on the sink edge? and then when you use it way too much soap smears off on you? It happens! To me at least.
Anyway. In the bathroom of the Radha Food House (finished Thali and merry Steel in the bar area behind me) I learned a solution. Bottle cap. Stick it in the bottom of your soap. Place soap bottle-cap-side down. Problem solved.
Genius.
The interesting thing someone said at a party.
It was HAPO Dan's 22nd birthday this past Wednesday, in honor of which an elderly, usually drunken diamond miner named Rick threw a party. After Rick's we went to Bubble's Nightclub where we learned that Wednesday night is happening in Tabora, and that locals love drunken wazungu dancing.
Prior to said dancing, however, an interesting comment was made by Rick's Tanzanian wife. She is quite a bit younger than he, and is spectacularly friendly. Everyone seems to love her, except Rick, whom I'm told often says that he married her for her body.
As we talked, she asked me about my experiences in Tanzania. I asked what, specifically, she was interested in knowing, and she mentioned her foreign cultural experiences in the UK:
In the west people don't care about each other
(moment's pause in which I think, and probably nod)
They are much more civilized.
They mind their own business.
(a moment's confusion, in which I stop nodding, realize that this was intended wholly as a compliment, and appreciate the wonders of cultural relativity.)
So for those of you who are struggling to find a point upon which to bolster your pride in Western Civilization, just remember: People don't care about each other -- it's much more civilized.Of course, I believe this to be a half-truth at best, but as an individual's observation, it is what is is.
Things that you learn by using your hands include -
If you just had lunch, and used your fingers to tear up a pili pili (hot pepper) for your wali na maharage na mboga (rice and beans and greens), don't touch your penis. It will start burning copiously about a minute after your finish peeing and about a 5 seconds before you've realized your recent tactical mistake.
HAPO Kids. HAPO stands for something, I'm sure, but to me it means: organization that owns a house in my neighborhood and brings over a stream of brits and canadians for me to hang out with. I admit, there have been moments where I've wondered about the authenticity of my experience here, as I spend increasing amounts of time with these westerners. Those moments invariably end when I remember that during my time in Ghana, when neither obroni nor wazungu were present with whom to spend time, though it might be tempting to call my experiences more authentic, in reality thy were just more lonely. It's not as if I spent more time with Ghanaian families -- I just spent more time alone. So many thanks for HAPO kids.
The HAPO crew has included Becci and Claire, two brits from Manchester on a gap year, who only stopped by for a few days on their post-volunteer duty travels. To the chagrin of their parents, their gap year has just become a gap two years, and Claire, given her increasing haircutting experience is considering pursuing a career in the arts of coiffurey.
There are Dan, Ashley and Elizabeth -- the Canadians. Dan an Ashley are in university but taking time off, and Elizabeth is a nurse who decided it was time for a change of scenery.
The most recent addition, who arrived only a few weeks ago, is Amy. Another young brit on a gap year who, because all of the above HAPO kids have left of will be leaving soon, will be forced to spend time with Gayo (my housemate) and me. Amy also has the unlucky distinction of having gotten malaria within a week of her arrival in Tabora.
The point, aside from the fact that doxycycline is crappy malaria prophylaxis, is that my experience in Tanzania has been quite a bit more social that it's Ghanaian predecessor. And this is a good thing.
Haircut.
I got another haircut. Here's what I look like now:
Inasmuch as this haircut was done by a single person, rather than two in only quasi-tandem, I'm hoping that the unified artistic vision which it embodies will display a bit more staying power before devolving into awkwardness, as my haircuts generally do. The single person who performed this haircut was Claire, one of a few brit girls on a pre-university gap year amongst a number of wazungu volunteers working at an organization named HAPO which runs a daycare for orphans deal (see installment 4)
Mwanza. I went to Mwanza last weekend. Mwanza is Tanzania's second largest city, and sits on the south shore of Lake Victoria. It was an experience somewhat in the vain of my blog post on 11/15/07, in which I talked about Africa and Africa, as well as the opportunity for more than a few of what have become cliched Small World comments during a expat experience that is often far closer to home than you might imagine. It started with -- what else -- Facebook. For those of you who don't know (Mom, Dad, etc. -- and Mom -- don't pretend you don't like getting special mention, even when I'm making fun of you), Facebook is an online social networking site. You sign up and waste time creating a list of friends stretching from grade school to rural Africa, and then do things like play online scrabble with them, post embarrassing pictures of them, and write notes to them which are broadcast publicly and therefore gratify our not-wholly-disavowed propensities for both exhibitionism and voyeurism. I recommend it!
Anyway. A few days before I was planning to take off for a weekend in Mwanza, I was friended (some people say "facebooked" as in -- "I facebooked you yesterday") by a friend from college. It's not that I don't have wonderful memories of Melanie Curtin, or my sophomore year at Stanford in which we lived together in a little house called Phi Sig on the Row, but I think she would agree that, thanks to the nature of the facebook network, the word "friend" has subsumed a variety of more complex descriptors that include, but are not limited too, 'friend,' 'acquaintance,' 'schoolmate,' 'someone I liked but never knew that well,' 'someone who never knew very well how much I didn't like them,' 'someone I'm trying to flirt with,' 'someone I'm trying to stalk,' 'someone who I maybe met once but I'm not sure,' 'someone I hooked up with, but I'm definitely not going to admit that when facebook asks how we know each other' and 'total stranger who has a cute profile picture.'
I would put Melanie in the categories 'someone I liked but never knew that well,' and 'schoolmate.' In the quick message exchange that followed the establishment of our everlasting Facebook Friendship, we established that she was working doing something in California, I was working doing something in Tanzania, and she happened to have a friend from Stanford working doing something in Mwanza. So, obviously, it was up to me abuse this dubiously scant relationship and make some new friends.
In Mwanza, I met and hung out with Emily (Melanie's friend), as well as her coworkers and from the Touch Foundation (NGO working with the Regional Referral Hospital in Mwanza) and McKenzie Consulting. They live in Tanzania (not Tanzania) -- a compound constructed for wealthy visiting donors that has four large apartments which are, frankly, nicer that anywhere I will live in America for the next 10 to 15 years of my life. I took special note of the showers - they were pod-like and had more omnidirectional shower-heads than I could count while urinating out the Single Malt Scotch Whiskey that was left by their boss on his last visit.
Remembering the currently non-functioning nature of my shower (well -- a bucket and a pitcher are always a functioning shower, but...) I quickly modified my open invitation for visitors in Tabora to include a warning about squat toilets, and bucket showers.
Also occurring that weekend in Mwanza, Tanzania (not Tanzania), was a barbecue held by the town Ultimate Frisbee team. Yes. Mwanza, Tanzania has an Ultimate Frisbee team. For those of you who don't know, Ultimate Frisbee is a game beloved by intramural college athletes and those with hippie tendencies across the US, but remains little know in other circles. Obviously, I'm a fan. It involves two teams trying to get a frisbee down a football field and into an end-zone, with the caveat that you can't run with the frisbee, and if the frisbee hits the ground, then the throwing team loses possession. I don't think that my medical school could find enough people to field a team, but Mwanza didn't seem to have a problem. The barbecue was most enjoyable, and notably wazungu (remember, mzungu the new obroni -- and don't be confused: mzungu is singular and wazungu is plural).
On the topic of small world, and given that I've recently decided that I might be a future Med-Peds doctor, at the barbecue I met a recent graduate of the Harvard Med-Peds residency program. He and his Nurse Practitioner wife have just moved to Mwanza with their 2 kids for a 3 year stint at which he is working in (running?) the Medicine department of the regional Hospital. It also turns out that he is from Annapolis, and that his little brother is a Junior Attackman for the Hopkins Lacrosse team, about which my father has recently sent a few emails proclaiming the start of the new season, and and lamenting their early season losses, especially to our dreaded rival Syracuse. Oh, and I also learned that Emily (Melanie's friend) was roommates at Stanford with Alida, my ex-girlfriend (who may or may not be listed as such on facebook).
The remainder of the weekend was enjoyable and not particularly blog-worthy. There were dinners out. There was reading on the lake shore. There was a beach outside of town. There was wandering around. It sometimes looked like this.
Alright. I've waited long enough that I have too much to include in a single post. So prepare yourself for a series.
Installment 1 -
My house. I put off writing about this until some of my home improvements were completed. By home improvement I mean the creation of furniture out of non-furniture components. Rather than write about it, I decided to take a few videos - they're a bit big, sorry. Enjoy!
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My baisikeli has taught me something about the level of engineering and production quality that we, in America, take for granted.
I say this because, to look at it, you would assume that it is of at least distantly comparable quality to the visually indistinguishable bicycles with which we are familiar in the states.
This is not the case.
Maybe my bike is mad because I haven't named it. If I had to choose a name for it at this moment, I would name it Larry the Leper. Parts of Larry keep falling off.
I had high hopes after the all-systems tune-up which proceeded my initial ride home two weeks ago. Bicycle maintenance shops, here consist of a guy with a greasy box of makeshift tools on a street corner, under a tree, in an alley or at any other position from which you're liable to see him as you pass with your hobbled conveyance. I've made a habit of going to the guy across the street from where I bought the bike. His name is something like Mr. Kazunga. I tried to remember it as a hybrid of mzungu (white person) and karanga (peanut), but I keep mixing up the vowels and he probably won't respond to "White Peanut." And I think he consistently overcharges me. But he's a cute little old man, and he has that red-tinted hair that bespeaks poor nutrition. So I try not to begrudge him the extra 10 or 20 cents he's getting off me.
Anyway, as I rode home, I was fairly certain that the odd feeling of imbalance that I felt had something to do either with the interval since my last ride or the sandy nature of the streets on Tabora. It turns out it had more to do with the fact that if I was to let go of the handlebars the bike would precipitously turn left, (theoretically) sending me sprawling over the handlebars.
I was correct in my suspicion that this tendency would improve with a few days' riding (though it still lists left a bit), but I was incorrect in my hope that after this initial breaking-in period, bicycle function would hit some sort of functional plateau. Instead, after the breaking-in period began the breaking-off period.
The first odd thing I noticed was a clicking sensation with each pedal revolution not quite a week after my purchase. The click localized to the left pedal, which I immediately noticed was no longer content with its formerly perpendicular connection with the pedal-lever, but felt more comfortable at a considerable angle. At home after a tricky single-pedal commute, and with the aid of my trusty Leatherman (Leatherman = African Gold), I attempted to remove and reinsert the pedal only to realize that the poorly smelted threads of the screw were crooked (and now partially stripped). I resolved to visit the store at which I bought the Larry on the following day.
The following day, roughly 15 feet from my home in the direction of the bike shop, the plastic body of the right pedal snapped in half and fell off. It was an interesting ride to the bike shop, as I tried not to put any weight on the crooked left pedal, and did my best not to let my now shoe slip off the greasy metal peg that remained of the right pedal on which I had to place all locomotive force.
The folks at the bike shop were pleasantly understanding and gave me free new pedals (which you can see below in Larry's picture from last post). White Peanut obligingly fixed them to my bicycle and overcharged me.
A few days later I got my crotch stuck as I tried to mount the bike. Sounds unpleasant, right? Yup. Turns out the nut that anchored the anterior tip of the seat had decided to fall off, and allow the seat tip to bob up and down at will. It actually wasn't a problem once I was on the seat, but I decided to fix it anyway.
White Peanut was happy to see me. Unfortunately, neither he nor his friend had the appropriately sized nut so, as I prepared to leave and try another repair guy, in yet another display of the manner in which disparate life experience leads to disparate problem solving tendencies, he and his friend dismantled my bicycle seat, peeling away the formerly adheesed [sic] padding, in order to replace the native screw with one for which they had a nut. He tamped the padding back on, triumphantly remounted the seat and overcharged me.
Before the week was out, as if White Peanut's skills weren't sufficient to forfend further malfunction, I noticed that my left pedal was clicking again. As I looked, and noted that the pedal was still appropriately perpendicular to the pedal-lever, the pedal-lever and perpendicularly attached pedal fell off the bike. I spent the remainder of that ride home kicking inwards with my left foot, synchronously with the downstroke of my right foot, in order to keep the left pedal from falling off with each rotation. It must have looked like some odd tic.
Though it was undeniably ingenious, I didn't think that this rather inefficient pedaling strategy would take me all the way to town to see White Peanut, so I had to try to some of his closer competitors. On the awkward ride to the nearest approprately shady intersection, I noticed that the neck of my handle bars, for some reason, were now at a 20 degree angle leftwards of my front tire. Which is to say that I had to steer considerably left to continue travelling straight. The first few bike-guys I visited had neither nut needed to reaffix my pedal, nor the wrench needed to tighten my handlebars. Eventually I found a guy with the nut, but I've currently resigned myself to manually correcting the alignment every time I dismount until I find a moment to visit your friend and mine, White Peanut. I'm confident that he will ease all my fears, and overcharge me.
A few days ago I began to write a post about the many things that have happened to me recently. It didn't take long before I realized I was meandering well beyond the point at which anyone would find the information entertaining. Anyone, that is, except a small subgroup of my readers who are obliged to find me entertaining and have a spectacularly high tolerance for inane detail. Which is to say, except my Family.
Therefore this post will work as follows. Those interested in a quick update, feel free to read through the initial segment, ignoring footnotes, and continue with your lives. Those interested in extra information should refer from the text to the Supplement, as directed.
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I have a home. I have a baisikeli. Not in that order.
Finding a new home has been a bit of an adventure. It has involved friends, hovels, and homes. Bikes, canadians and missionaries. Also not in that order.
As of Sunday past last, I was rather perturbed. After having seen a number of survivable but not attractive lodgings (1) thanks to my friend Issa (2), I had finally seen a room in a wholly livable little 3 bedroom home. The other two bedrooms were occupied by the Nursing Officer and the Laboratory Technician from one of our project Dispensaries (3). I was fully packed to move and working on organizing transportation when I was informed that I would not be able to move into the room. It turns out that the landlord was not comfortable with my moving in (4).
Still, I had planned all variety of shopping endeavors that day to allow for my move. I had priced beds (6), bicycles and other key home improvement equipment (7). While it was clear that certain acquisitions could now wait, I decided to buy a bike anyway (8).
I am now the owner of a lovely (Figure 1) bicycle. It's a Mountain Bike. This does not mean that the bike has gears -- only imported used European bikes have gears -- just that it has straight handlebars instead of the wide U-shaped cruiser handlebars. (9)
Note the lovely green coloration, the non-matching pedals (see future post) and the decals (figure 2).
It's a Nahaco Sport Bike. Sport! I'm so sporty when I ride it's ridiculous. At least I have to assume that's what the ruckus is about.
I bought the bike from a gentleman named Karim, who regretted not having any rooms available (10), but who referred me to Pastor Tim: "An American!"
Moments later I was in Arkansas. There were no rooms available in Arkansas, but there were Southern Baptist missionaries and sweet tea (11). Arkansas referred me to England, in the guise of Dr. Ruth (giggles intended), the brit doc who runs a clinic for the Anglican Church of Tabora.
The next evening I was picked up by Dr. Ruth and taken to her home for a feast of a dinner (12) attended by missionaries including but not confined to Tim and Kim (the Arkansans) (13), Dr. Ruth, Jill (14), and David, an elderly Anglican minister who needs to turn up his hearing aid, John (15), 3 twenty-something Canadians (16, eh?), me, and a Tanzanian named Gayo.
I'm living with Gayo (17). Here (Figure 3).
Coming soon -- Bicycle Maintenance and Home Improvement.
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(1) These rooms were Standard Tanzanian Rooms. I had seen two. These rooms were 10$ per month. Yes. 10$. One was medium-smallish, in a flat with three other rooms (each of which housed an entire Tanzanian family), with outdoor pit latrines that were also showers (which is to say that is where one would probably choose to pour water on themselves), and a kitchen that was a room where each family had their wood-charcoal burning stove (more of a glorified bucket). The other was "self-contained" in that it was quite small, but had a small closet with a western style toilet in it, and also a shower head and a hole in the floor which was obviously created with a sledge hammer for the purpose of drainage. The kitchen was the inner courtyard, also replete with wood stoves, and half flooded from the recent rains -- you had to walk across on a series of bricks, while ducking the many laundry lined at roughly ben-neck level. I wasn't excited about either, but was working on convincing myself that with a bit of furniture and a kerosene stove I would be fine.
(2) whom, because I had met and spoken with him on the street twice, is one of my best non-MVP Taboran friends. He's a tall gentleman, probably in his late 50s or early 60s, with the paunch of a man who has worked for years in the offices of the National Railway, and retired recently because of (likely cardiovascular) health reasons. For no reason other than hospitality and free time he took upon himself to find me a few rooms.
(3) basic clinics.
(4) something something contract they had signed something something person that the landlord had not met something something but the landlord lives 700km away something something = people are afraid of living with and/or being landlord to the white guy. (5)
(5) actually, even one of the landlords for the 10$-a-month rooms decided he could not offer it to me. HA!
(6) foam mattresses
(7) like kerosine stoves and mosquito nets.
(8) The city is set up such that the Market is on the opposite side of town from the project office. My hostel was close to the market, and the day I walked back from the office it took about an hour -- maybe 4km. I figured that if I ended up living near the market I would need the bike to get to work, but if I found a place near work I would need it to get to town.
(9) Like all bikes here it also has a sturdy luggage rack over the back tire for carrying charcoal, harvests, and friends (not always in that order and not always separately).
10) the Tanzanian-born muslim-Indian bicycle store owner. He actually did have a newly renovated storefront destined to be a photo studio, which he offered to rent to me, since its future tenants were delaying on their move. I declined. The store was located next to the Mohammed-Trans bus depot, which is actually just the lobby of and the area in front of an old movie theater. Karim's family owns the theater, and despite the collapsing roofing, and rows of moistening wooden chairs, one can imagine it formerly lit by nightly Bollywood films and attended by Tabora's considerable Indian population -- a population which swiftly dwindled a few decades ago when the country began to socialize the property of rich Indians. Out of considerable property holdings, Karim's family was left only with the theater (which, presumably, no one could figure out anything to do with and was worthless without it's Indian clientelle) and the corner apartment in one of the many buildings they owned (from which Karim is now awoken by Mohammed-Trans' daily engine maintenance).
11) Generally acknowledged to be more frightening than getting lost in the bush. My misgivings notwithstanding (they had CNN international on the TV, and I was terrified that politics would come up), like all children of god, they were spectacularly nice.
12) our phone conversation and the "why don't I pick you up for dinner tomorrow and we can discuss housing possibilities" didn't really prepare me for this....
13) Southern Baptist
14) Anglican
15) some denomination of Irishman, doing something that has to do with running the town dairy (I've found yogurt and cheese!) and other god-related business enterprises.
16) It actually turns out that they're here volunteering in an orphanage and are not missionaries. I didn't find this out until later, however, because I was afraid to ask and thereby bring up religion, abortion, premarital sex, contraception, George W., and other stories in search of redemption.
17) He is an IT (internet technology) guy, who went to University in Uganda, speaks excellent english, and has more electronics equipment in his room than the rest of Tabora. So far so good!
The other day I saw a crowd gathered in the center of town. There was a throng around the gate of the National Bank Of Commerce (NBC), as well as those who had stopped to watch from various vantage points along the misshapen 5 way intersection.
I was walking with the project's new Agriculture and Environment Coordinator. He is as new to the project as I am, and is staying in the same hostel as I. Inasmuch as neither of us have a kitchen, we sometimes go out to get meals together. We had just eaten dinner at the "Nice Hotel." Hotel here just means restaurant. Few (none) of them have rooms for rent. I had Chapatti (almost a staple, given the country's long history of Indian Ocean trade), Chai (which here is just any tea), and some hard boiled eggs, since the beans weren't ready yet (bado = not ready, it's easy to remember because not having beans is bado).
Anyway. Manumbu asked a parked bicycle-taxi (these are just guys with regular bicycles, by the way--you sit on the little luggage platform above the rear tire) what was going on. It was a stoning. Well -- an attempted stoning. The presumptive criminal had fled to the protection of the NBC, which is gated and has security guards. And, indeed, as we looked we saw folks arriving with stones in hand and hunks of rock carried above their head.
I have actually read about this. When I was in Ghana I read the comedic autobiographical memoirs or Robert Sapolsky, a biology professor at Stanford renown for his quirkiness who has spent a considerable chunk of his life studying baboons in the Kenyan bush. I believe he said something like -- you haven't really travelled in east Africa until you've seen a thief stoned in the street.
Well, I don't know if this counts--whether I've really travelled in East Africa yet--because it was unclear if the thief was going to be expelled from the life-extending walls of the NBC or not, and we didn't wait around to find out.
So yeah. A stoning. It might have happened a few hundred meters behind me as I walked home, probably depending on whether the guards at the NBC decided they liked the guy or not. Or perhaps whether he could pay them off. If he was turned out, he would be killed.
You might take a moment to try to orient yourself to the socioeconomopolitico conditions, such as the ineffectuality of the police, or the traditional structure of rural African communities in which normative judgements (justice?) are decided by community committee (peers, elders and chiefs, though even chiefs often do not hold incontrovertible sway over the opinions of other elders or the community) and are doled out as such.
Still, what struck me is that, given these circumstances, random guy number 42 who lives in Tabora will stop on his way to market, or pull over his bicycle, pick up a stone and participate, perhaps with gusto, in the death of another community member.
Can you imagine actually casting a stone?
Could you watch?
What could you do?
That's like Swahili street for Jambo, which is like the informal way of saying Habari, which is like Hello. Hello!
I'm starting to settle in to my new Western Tanzania home fairly well. I'm still living in a hostel, which is mostly inconvenient for it's lack of kitchen access, but once I pass that hurdle it will all be on the up and up.
So I think it's time for the first of what might be an occasional series comparing the wonders of Tanzania and Ghana.
Things that are different about living in a small city in Western Tanzania, as compared with a village in Central Ghana, include:
More consistent electricity - it's only been out for about 2 of my 7 days here so far.
Easy access to beans - one of the first words I learned in Swahili was "maharagwe," and I haven't looked back since. Although Tanzanians don't immediately seem to grasp the idea that if they're eating beans, ugali (a cakey cassava/maize thing) AND meat, and I'm only eating beans and ugali, that I'll want relatively more beans. It's not that I just want to eat LESS. (Although who knows what motivates the crazy white guy who keeps running back and forth on the roads out of town and doesn't accept offers of bike-taxis, though he seems to be in some great hurry...)
An audience while running - more people to encourage me as I jog! They are cheering, right?
When you run up a hill here, which are generally smaller than their Ghanaian counterparts (though still tempting to those who like vistas), and topped with exposed boulders instead of dense forest and cocoa plantations, you might be greeted, not by confused cocoa farmers, but by a Tanzanian in full camouflage uniform who doesn't speak a word of English, but whose presence is nonetheless enough to indicate that this is some kind of militarily strategic 50 meter hillock just outside of town and please don't run here anymore. Asante! Well -- to be honest I've run up two such hills, and only met one such man, but I can only assume that 50% of the small hills in Western Tanzania are protected as such.
The water runs slightly tinted from my tap here. And it smells like lake water -- water plus dirt. But it could smell worse.
The constant motivation to learn the language - I never thought I'd say this, but it turns out that there is a relative excess of English in rural Ghana. In large part, it's that everyone in Ghana uses English numbers, which is enough to get you by in a lot of day-to-day activities, but it's also that West Africa lacks a unifying African language with which to communicate, and so, even internally, they sometimes use the English or French left to them by their colonizers. In East Africa, it's Swahili, Swahili and only Swahili. Not really, there are other local dialects too, but there sure isn't any English. I think I already know as much Swahili as I did Twi, although I'm not as functional with it.
The roads may be bad here, but that is made up for by the fact that Everything is a Road. In the Ghana village cluster there were few roads, and they were all in terrible conditions. Still, once couldn't help but drive along these roads because the alternative was wrapping your car around a huge tree. Here, the sandy soil and seasonal rain support at its densest, some well spaced little trees and various grasses and scrub brush. This means that when one is in the village cluster in the the project's safari-style land-cruiser (did you know that Safiri is the Swahili verb for Travel? Aaaahhhhh! Just blew your mind...), and you want to get from point A to randomly non-contiguous point B, you just ask a villager for directions and drive your beast of a car along the little footpaths that connect essentially most all points of any even minimal interest. It's fun! But don't open your window too much or you'll get slapped around by the vegetation.
In Ghana there was this cool little plant that would fold up its leaves if you blew on it or brushed it as you walked by. It grew like a weed along roadsides and footpaths. No one seemed as entertained by it as I was. Tanzania doesn't have those, but it does have random stands of Mint growing wild, and driving or running through them is always a pleasant olfactory experience.
I'm in the office right now on a Saturday morning because we're having some kind of diplomatic visit by the Japanese government this afternoon. Japan is a strong supporter of the Millennium Villages Project and it's initiatives in a number of countries. And a large Japanese corporation donated all the LLIN (Long-Lasting Insecticide-treated [anti-mosquito bed]Nets) for several village clusters, including this one. The former prime minister was supposed to be coming, although I'm told that his plans have changed. No one seems quite sure who is coming anymore, but I'm expecting to be entertained by a weekend of pointed cultural contrasts.
I haven't taken any pictures around here yet, so here's one from Reunion:
This is the view from the most recent lava flow (spring 2007, I think), still steaming. You can't see the baguettes and wine, but I promise, they were JUST off camera.
Hello!
Greetings from Dar es Salaam. After a lovely sojourn in the developed world, including a week in Maine, a week in Baltimore, two weeks in NYC, and a week in Paris, I found myself on the lovely island of Reunion.
Despite the fact that I enjoy calling Reunion France's Guam, it's actually more like France's Hawaii, inasmuch as it's a proper French Department. Although, given that it is located in the middle of the Indian Ocean (east of Madagascar, near Mauritius), there is a relatively sizable landmass (Africa) between continental France and it's tropical vacation-destination. Still, if you've been to Hawaii and France, you can pretty much imagine what it's like: tropical volcanic island, economically disadvantaged "native" underclass (here not really native, but Creole -- the post-colonial progeny of intermarried African, Indian and Arab slave populations), plus lots of boulangerie's, and ample wine and cheese.
I liked it.
I was staying with my friend Helen. She's been helping me define my hippie tendencies since high school, and is now in Reunion as part of France's Language Assistant Program. This means that she, and a variety of other expats, enjoy the tropical climes while slaving away at a full 12 hours of class time each week, for a salary that we calculated to be 35$ per hour. It's a hard life. Oh--and they were just finishing up 6 weeks paid vacation.
Helen lives with an Aussie (hi Laura), and a Spaniard (hi Anna). Anna's boyfriend Toni was also visiting (Hola Toni). Languages necessary for person to person communication included english, french, spanish, catalan, and wild gesticulation.
We decided to go scuba-diving.
I have vivid memories of tropical family vacations, my bearded father, snorkeling, and the use of copious amounts of Vaseline to prevent mask-leakage. I decided, instead, to shave off my mustache.
This would be about 10pm on January 24th.
and then
This would be about, oh, 1020pm.
I let that style linger for about an hour, and decided the beard was doomed as well.
The following night, having completed our scuba adventure, and having had the day to decide that my hair looked unfortunately long without the aid of the beard for scale, we continued the process.
This was the first haircut I had ever been given simultaneously by two people, one being Helen, and the other being her Austrian friend, Elisabeth.
Tip: Be careful about letting someone you're trying to flirt with give you a haircut.
Still, things turned out well, although I'm not sure the picture does justice to the asymmetry, to which I'm still becoming accustomed. Perhaps I'll just have to develop a crush on a more symmetrically minded individual and let them have a go at it.
So here's The Ben, 2008 model, rolled out slightly late. No more Yesu catcalls for me.
See you in Tabora?
Posts
Note the lovely green coloration, the non-matching pedals (see future post) and the decals (figure 2).
It's a Nahaco Sport Bike. Sport! I'm so sporty when I ride it's ridiculous. At least I have to assume that's what the ruckus is about.
This is the view from the most recent lava flow (spring 2007, I think), still steaming. You can't see the baguettes and wine, but I promise, they were JUST off camera.
and then
This would be about, oh, 1020pm.
I let that style linger for about an hour, and decided the beard was doomed as well.
The following night, having completed our scuba adventure, and having had the day to decide that my hair looked unfortunately long without the aid of the beard for scale, we continued the process.
See you in Tabora?
