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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.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Installment 5 - Things that you learn by using your hands
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.
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.
Installment 4 - HAPO Kids
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.
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.
Installment 3 - Haircut
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)
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)
Installment 2 - Mwanza
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.
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.
Installment 1 - My house. Now with videos!
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!
___
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!
___
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
My Baisikeli
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.
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.
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