Everything's Comin' Up...

While things have been going very well this summer, there is a lot that goes unposted, as I’m sure you know. To say that everything is perfect with this internship and my experience in Tanzania thus far, or that there are no frustrations would be to gloss over quite a few of the things that have happened while we have been here.

For instance, the lack of political correctness is often incredibly irritating. Why people think that someone walking down the street has to have their (assumed) ethnicity yelled at them is beyond me. We don’t need people to speak seemingly Asian-sounding gibberish at our friends, and neither do we need them to touch or pull our hair or touch our skin. Of course, I think we can take the PC a little overboard in America, but I think that our struggle to be as correct and tolerant as possible perhaps makes our skin softer than it needs to be. While I am welcomed with open arms, even receiving special deals from taxis and markets for the color of my skin, I still feel anger and frustration on behalf of my teammates. To be constantly pointed out as being different is never fun.

We’ve taken to denouncing our American ties in whatever way we can. While we do have two international students in our team, the other three of us claim roots only from our parent’s countries. For the purposes of avoiding being cheated, I am from Cameroon; one of my teammates is from Sri Lanka, and the other Vietnam. It’s much more practical to live this way. While most people can’t comprehend Asian countries other than India, China, or Japan, I am welcomed with open arms as a fellow African. People often look to me to act as translator when the language barrier between them and my colleagues rises too high. Unfortunately, I usually can’t communicate much better than they can.

Even though most of our trainees speak English, we still find that sometimes the language barrier proves to be a challenge. Even more so than that, however, is the technology barrier. Many of the people we train have never used a computer before. While it is incredibly awesome to get to see someone going from absolutely nothing to something, and to get be involved in that journey, it’s can also be a pretty bumpy one. It’s so easy to take for granted the intricacies of electronics. While I find scrolling to be an entirely intuitive action, many of our trainees struggle with this aspect of using a computer the most. My patience is tested every time I have to explain that the up arrow is used to move the page up, that a drop down menu uses a different scroll bar than the main page, or the 15^th time I have to remind a trainee the difference between the scrollbar and the up-down arrows. And each time my patience is tested it reinforces my sense of gratitude that I do have the privilege of knowing these things.

And latrine toilets. In particular, they type that don't flush. Nope. All of them.

I don’t think this will be like my experience last year in whichi always recount the bad things before mentioning any of the good ones, but it has certainly had its tough moments.  I’ve grown to prefer long skirts to pants, and while I didn’t feel comfortable enough to go swimming in Zanzibar, it provided some great conversation time along the beach. While wali nyama does get repetitive day after day, I don’t think I’ll ever tire of the accompanying mangos, bananas, pineapple, soursop, mangosteen, rambutan—the list goes on. I’m not itching to be home as I thought I would be by the time I reached the 4-week mark. I’m very content. Of course we’re not occupied every moment of every day, or even the majority of everyday, sometimes. We never have Internet access on par with what we’re used to in the states, if we have it at all. But I appreciate the sun and screams of children and just having time to stop and smell the hibiscus. 

What are you doing here?

Sharati is a town—or a village, really—in the Mara region. It does not have electricity sometimes, but that’s okay. It does not have running water, either, but that’s okay, too. It does not have taxies, so we ride bodaboda—motorcycles—instead.

It is a peaceful town, with peaceful people. We are staying at the Community Center, a small hotel run by the Menonite Church. The rooms are small, but incredibly clean, and furnished in a style that reminds us very much of home. There is a quilt on the bed, a bureau with a half-length mirror, and wallpaper in the bathroom. While the faucets on the sink and shower appear to be just for show, we are provided with 2 buckets of water—one for the shower and the other for flushing the toilet—and a heating coil.

There is a special market on Mondays, where khangas are TZS 5000 each, and you can get a sandwich bag full of roasted meat for TZS 1000.

Dr. Z, lives in Sharati. He is from Tanzania, and he completed his bachelors, MD, and residency from Dartmouth, Howard, and Stanford, respectively. He manages to maintain a fully stocked hospital despite the lack of reliable electricity and running water. His library is full of books with subjects ranging from surgery, to children’s rhymes, all in English. His children went to Tufts and continue living in America, yet Dr. Z…lives in Sharati.

When we entered the dining room the first morning of our stay at the Menonite community center, we were the only other people in there besides a dark-haired woman and her clearly mixed children. She was speaking some language that we sounded very much—but not enough—like German. After a few minutes of speculation, our Supervisor from the APHFTA office in Mwanza just out right asked her. It turned out she and her Swiss-German speaking children were from Switzerland, and her husband was Tanzanian. They had just built a house in Sharati and she was awaiting his return from a safari into Mwanza for furniture for their new home.

At the special Monday Market, we saw a big group of the worst kind of wazungu—and by this I mean the tall, blond-haired, fair-skinned type that screams foreigner. It runs out that they are from America and are working with one of the clinics we will be visiting tomorrow.

I always wonder what brings a person to a place. I don’t know exactly what it means to belong, but I know what it looks like when you don’t. perhaps I think of myself and my team as an exception. We have a reason to be here. But other people? Hardly. Some of the places we’ve visited, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to come to for a random holiday. Sometimes I see frantic tourists in front of the John Harvard statue and I wonder the same thing. It’s not that these places are not beautiful or relaxing or historical, but sometimes there’s just not really too much there. But that’s okay, I guess.

The world is a very small place and it will only continue to get smaller. Perhaps I take these places for granted—Harvard Yard included. Perhaps one day I may see and not wonder: How in the world did you end up here?

Winds of Change

Soulprint is a book by Mark Batterson. It was given to me by my pastor a few months ago. I ought to have read it, but as all things I ought to have read, I didn’t—until just a few weeks ago. I thought it was something I would be able to read all the way through, but the first chapter was packed with so much for me to think about that I decided to devote an entire week to each chapter.

This book has really got me thinking. As I try to find my “divine destiny,” it’s so easy to get lost in all I’m surrounded with for the majority of the time while I’m at home or at school. I feel like it’s summers like this that help me to screw my head back on right and think straight. I remember reading through the WorldTeach Costa Rica pre-departure information last year. They emphasized pretty seriously that I should not go into my 10 weeks in Costa Rica with the intention of it being a time of self-exploration or self-discovery. Now, of course, I find this laughable. Of course I taught and loved my students as well as I could, but I can’t imagine how a summer in rural Costa Rica with no Internet and nothing to do after 1pm could have been anything but a summer for self-exploration and –discovery. So, while I knew I would be doing a lot of work this summer, I knew that it would also be a time for the fog of stress, anxiety, responsibilities—everything, really—to clear.

Batterson says that one’s soulprint is made up of a few experiences—certainly fewer than you’d think—that shape it. They’re points along the way. Some big, some small. Like connect-the-dots, they are the backbone of a shape or a picture that is great.

I was interviewing the CEO of APHFTA with one of my colleagues, when I was made incredibly aware of something. Both of us were struggling premeds—and by that I mean people struggling to figure out whether or not they should actually be premed—so we thought we would ask the doctor if he had always know he should have been a doctor. The simple answer was no, but he instead of giving the simple answer, he weaved for us a story embroidered with hope, diligence, and vision. He gave us the connect-the-dot story of how he became a doctor, starting with his missionary father moving from Tanzania to various parts of East Africa, going over his brief stint as a 17-yr old business man, and ending with how he came to be sitting in his leather computer chair that day. It was fascinating. It truly struck a chord within me.

I think I have a new vision of what things are supposed to see. Something as simple as a new understanding of hard work and doing what you are supposed to do when and where you are supposed to do it. But that’s not even quite it. It’s a lot more intangible than that. I am really, really looking forward to next school year, and I can feel a change coming along. I know that a lot of things have to change. They’re going to be really, really big changes, but they’re also going to be great ones.  I’m going to have to make quite a few big decisions, but it’s all a part of a bigger outline.

That, I’m sure of.

Welcome to Mwanza!

We are in Mwanza now, and while it is home to Lake Victoria, it is clear that it is not meant to be a tourist destination. It would certainly not make it to the top of my list. I will save further details for the Mwanza City Report.

As soon as we arrived in town, we began searching for accommodations. There are quite a few “hotels” and lodges very close to the APHFTA office, so we decided to begin our search there. As we looked, we found that double rooms were rather hard to come by. Apparently, in this regionpeople of the same sex are not allowed to stay in a room together*. Thinking we must have misunderstood the first time, we made sure that this was the case, and indeed it was. While the reasoning behind this (likely homophobia) was not explained to us, we figured we would have to accept it. After shopping around at a few places, we decided on SunCity Hotel, which made an exception to the same-sex rule for us.

Our hotel costs my roommate and I $2 each/night. Yes, that is USD**. 

We were told there was only one self-contained room—a term used to indicate the presence of a bathroom in the room—and that the only other available room had a shared hall-bathroom complete with latrine-toilets***. The staff did not speak a word of English, so all of this was conveyed to us through our new Supervisor who was kind enough to help us figure out our living situation. There was also no electricity there, nor at any of the other lodges we had visited. (Power outages are commonplace in this area of Mwanza, so the staff was unfazed, and perhaps even confused by our questions of when the power would come back on.) Despite all of these problems, however, the rooms were incredibly clean, each had a color television, and it was next door to the APHFTA office. After paying for our rooms and putting our luggage away, we went to the office and then out to dinner.

After a delicious meal of roasted tilapia and plantains, we returned to the hotel. To our delight, the electricity was on. We had been speculating amongst ourselves the best way to shower in pitch-black darkness without falling into the adjoining latrine-toilet, but luckily our conjectures did not have come to fruition. The generator was roaring loudly and all was well.

As my roommate and I walked back to our non-self-contained room, a rather large middle-aged man came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. Shocked, horrified, and scandalized, I fumbled for the key, as we struggled to keep from bursting out with laughter. Now that we were privy (no pun intended) to the utter awkwardness of our bathroom situation, we decided that we would shower in our other teammate's room to avoid walking around the sole hallway in a state of undress. We also realized that our window overlooked a table at the bar and restaurant next door, and that the loud music almost managed to drown out the noise of the generator.

After realizing we had been given only one towel, I attempted to ask the sole staff member for an extra one. Up until this point, I’d been able to scrape by communicating with what little Kiswahili I have, mixed with a good amount of English and an even better amount of TPR. Having been reduced to two tactics now that the staff was monolingual, I found myself having a much harder time. The main issue was that I knew she could understand me, but I could not understand her. Luckily we happened upon another tenant who could speak English. After about twenty minutes of back and forth, it was explained to us that only one towel was allowed per room. Because we were sharing a room (which was not technically allowed) we were only permitted one towel. I could not rent an extra towel, but would have to pay the price of another room (TZS 8000) if I wanted to be able to dry myself after my shower.

I walked away, incredulous and defeated. After all this, we found out that therewere in fact, more self-contained rooms. To our surprise, our Boss had moved into the hotel while we were at dinner. Not really sure how that miscommunication went down, considering it happened between two Kiswahili-speaking people...

Now, I wouldn’t say that up until now we’d been experiencing an illegitimate, watered-down, or fake version of Africa, but what we were experiencing in Mwanza was something entirely different from what we had seen thus far. Perhaps more real. Perhaps not. It was certainly less-Westerner-friendly. I feel that I may have a lot to learn from Mwanza. We’ll see what I have to say one week from now.

Oh, and one thing I’ve already learned that I’ll never forget: If you turn on the hot water switch while the generator is running, all the electricity on the entire street will go out.

*We assume that the pricier, more touristy hotels would probably allow same-sex rooming arrangements, but all of those would have been well out of our price range.

**The moral of the story: You get what you pay for.

***If you know of any possible way a latrine-toilet is in any way practical than a toilet bowl, I beseech you to do so. 

Summertime...

Yesterday, the first of the interns made her way back to her home country of Sri Lanka. Just a few hours ago another intern left to go back to the Phillipines.

Watching my two colleagues leave really made me aware of the mortality of this summer. For so long it seemed endless and boundless, but I’ve been reminded now that it’s very quickly drawing to a close.

And then there were three.

On Thursday we’ll be leaving for our last scheduled training in the Mwanza region. We’ll be training personnel from seven different clinics, so we certainly won’t be lacking things to keep us busy. Laden with 5 net books and two desktops (complete with printers and scanners), it will certainly be the largest training I’ve been through for this summer, but I’m looking forward to going out with a bang.

City Report: Stonetown*, Zanzibar

After spending 5 days on the beautiful (understating here) island of Zanzibar (a.k.a. Spice Islands), all of us decided that we would spend our (respective) honeymoons there—it’s just that incredible. The people on the island are actually incredibly conservative, and you’ll see most women in full hijab despite the piercing heat, although the narrow corridors of the immaculately historical Stonetown provide enough shade to escape the harshest parts of the day.

Home to the birthplace of Swahili, a mixture of Arabic, Bantu, and some English and Portuguese, most of the inhabitants of Zanzbarare of mixed-race heritage, allowing for an rather diverse-looking population. It’s main income comes from tourism though—you can find tourists there year-round—and there are shops on every street, as well as many gorgeous and unique hotels.

Food:

There are a plethora of restaurants on the island, with many different international cuisines to choose from—we even found a restaurant specializing in Belgian foods! However, if you’re on a budget, I’d stay away from them. All of them. Only in the inner areas of Stonetown will you be able to find reasonably priced meals at a restaurant (TZS 2000-8000), but don’t worry, the food is still pretty delicious. Luukman’s was one of our favorite day spots to go to. I got lunch there for TZS 2500. There’s also an unnamed place—to our knowledge—just down the street that has great prices as well, when Luukman’s is too overrun by tourists. But for the King of dinners, you’ll have to go to Foridhani Gardens. As the sun begins to set this beautiful Garden area is turned into a street food fair complete with (mostly) fresh seafood, Zanzibar pizzas (super delicious and really cheap), fresh sugarcane juice, and the like. I’ve developed a mantra recently that unless there is a price tag or a sign declaring fixed prices, everything is negotiable, and the same goes for Forodhani. Within the first night I developed a lasting relationship with one of the seafood vendors, procuring two large crabs, salad, and chapatti for my friend and I for only TZS 9000 (from the starting price of TZS 36000). It might be hard to budge sometimes, but if you’re persistent (or from Africa), you’ll be able to bring the prices down.

Notice: The seafood at Forodhani’s is not always as fresh as the nice boys behind the smorgasbord would allow you to think. The cheaper things tend to come and go pretty quickly, but there was one lobster that stayed on the table almost every night we were there. You should also be aware that everything is partially cooked for ease of throwing it on the grill to reheat and get to your plate in a reasonable amount of time. You can always have them throw something back on the burner in case you’re unsatisfied with its doneness.

Market:

There is actually only one market near Stonetown, but it contains a fish sections, fruits and vegetables section, and an enormous spices section. Everyone will give you different prices for the same products, but before even worrying about that, you should make sure to look at freshness. Particularly with the spices, you may get a great deal on old, tasteless wares if you’re not careful. For packaged spices, make sure that the plastic is still completely translucent. They start to get opaque once they’ve been sitting around for too long. The food market is also catty-corner to a pretty comprehensive fabric market with beautiful “silk” (not silk) scarves.

Sights:

Just like in Arusha, almost everyone is a tour guide or knows of one. You may want to shop around a bit, as the prices can be vastly different for the very same tours. I definitely recommend going on the spice tour. You get to see, taste, and smell a lot of fresh spices and fruits and it’s awesome. A tour of Stonetown  is also an absolute must. It’s such a beautiful city with such incredible history. You’ll even get to see the home of Freddy Mercury!

Stays:

Manch Lodge or Jambo Hotel are great places to stay. They’re more hostel style, so you pay $15/night and have to share a few bathrooms, but the breakfast they serve is delicious!

Notice: It is highly unlikely that you’ll ever be able to find these places without taking any wrong turns in the maze-like streets of Stonetown. Make sure to take note of surrounding landmarks so that you can ask locals.

Warning: People in Zanzibar are incredibly kind—we wazungu are their livelihood after all—but I would be careful with some of the men and boys. I don’t want to make any blanket statements, but I encountered quite a few creepers. There was one guy (~40 years old) who worked at our hotel who kept trying  to get me to go on a “walk” with him. If you’re an unmarried female, beware! If you’re married, however, most men will leave you alone.

All in all, Zanzibar is an incredible place. It was the first place in which we encountered Americans or people our age. I also feel like it’s one of those places where you have to spend at least a month or so there to feel satisfied that you actually know the place. There’s so much more to the island than Stonetown (it’s an archipelago!), and all of it—particularly the beaches—is breathtaking. We extended our stay by an extra two days because we loved it so much. I also met a pastor who went there on a short-term missions trip with his family and loved it so much that they came back with a one-way ticket.

Be careful if you ever go to Zanzibar—you might never want to leave!

*I think Stonetown may actually be more of a neighborhood than a city, but whatever.

Wazungu

It passes from person to person like an echo.

Wazungu.

Foreigners.

If it’s not our bags clutched tlightly at our sides, or our backpacks perched in front like bellies pregnant with gadgets, valuables, and stacks of shillings, its our hair, natural, worn down, uncoverd. If its not our hair it’s our clothing, girls in pants or skirts that hit mid-shin instead of ankle. If it’s not our clothing it’s our skin. Or our eyes. Or our accents.

Wazuuuunguuuu!

Children scream it like laughter, women whisper it like gossip, men gnash it with teeth like sharks. It’s a brand. Wazungu.

Like hawks, we are descended upon. Newspaper men flock to the windows of our taxis, quickly flipping to the English section and pressing it onto the glass. Street vendors call out to us as we walk along the street. Karibuni! Looking is free! Young men and boys, permanently stationed on various street corners call out Mambo! and Vipi! like a test. We murmur our Poas and Safis in response as necessary. We simply ignore those who call out China to our Vietnamese and Filipino teammates and the various Kiswahili names for Indians to our Sri Lankan ones.

Here, it is as if the observation of our foreignness is as necessary to point out as it is to breathe or eat. Heads turn as we walk down the street. Children poke, men eye. And always the whispers. Wazungu.

While on safari, we would constantly call out to one another as we spotted animals. Zebra! Hippos over there! Baby elephant! It never got old. In many places, we feel as if we are the safari animals, moving through the savannah of the streets, providing them with spectacle.

It’s not so much irritating as it is intriguing. In America—in Harvard Yard even, we receive thousands of tourists everyday. I have yet to go out of my way to even glance over at one as I walk to my classes or back to my room. I do not poke them. I do not grab at them as they walk down the cobblestone sidewalks. I do not try to guess their nationality and then yell it at them, or attempt to speak to them in a language I think might be theirs, yet here, these things happen to us and our fellow tourists everyday.

In America we love privacy and personal space, and we would never dream of breaching another’s. Here, no such boundaries are upheld and while it used to disturb us, it gets less and less startling everyday.