ANTS attack!

ANTS attack!

If there were one creature capable of taking over the world, it’d be, hands down, ants. There are some crazy ants here in Tanzania. Thankfully I haven’t experienced this firsthand, but a fellow PCV told me a specific kind of ant has eaten their way inside her house through the cement. They literally chewed through cement. That’s some extraterrestrial kind of ant right there. There are huge ants that bite, medium ants that bite, and small ants that bite. Pretty much they all suck. Normally, if an ant dies, the others cannibalize that ant. Literally, within 5 minutes there is a swarm of ants consuming their fallen comrade. And then they attack you. They’re never satisfied I tell ya.

I went over to my neighbor’s house (the one I call my Tanzanian Mama), and naturally she made me sit down to eat lunch. I hung out for a bit chatting and solidifying her journey to Morogoro as my Counterpart, and her kids busted out the charcoal stove. We roasted corn over charcoal and it made me miss home. One of the things I appreciate about Tanzanians is that they are always so curious. If I were a Tanzanian and I had an American girl living in my village I’d ask her a billion questions too. I had a fun time explaining that in the U.S., we too use charcoal to roast (grill) corn. I explained that our charcoal stoves are higher off the ground and we are able to stand as we cook. This brought about a few gasps. The idea of cooking standing up was a bit difficult to understand. I also told them that we boil the corn before we roast it on the charcoal, and that we put butter and salt on it after it’s finished. They simply place it on a grate over the charcoal and once it’s cooked, they eat it. It’s surprisingly tasty.

Is rainy season over yet?

I know rain is imperative for life, but I need a little sunshine! The rainy season is from November until April/May. In my region during this time it rains EVERY day. Since I have a tin roof, it sounds like a stampede of wildebeests above me. I have a routine for when it rains. First I make sure I tuck the sheet acting as a curtain in my bedroom into the bars so it doesn’t rain all over my bed. Next I make sure there’s a basin next to my couch because my roof leaks from only this one spot. Then I plug up my back door because if it rains hard enough, there will be a mini river in my kitchen. Let me clarify a few things, I don’t hate the rain, it’s just annoying sometimes. Like when it’s pouring and I want to wash my dishes because it’s getting dark and I don’t want to give the rats more of a reason to enter my home. Or when I’m trying to read some resources from Peace Corps and it’s so loud I can’t hear myself think. However, I do appreciate the fact that at night when it rains, I can’t hear any of the creatures outside or inside my house. Just the rain.

Sista, Sista, Sista

Have you ever gotten tapped repeatedly on the forehead until you acknowledged the fact that they wanted to get your attention? Me either, but! One of my travel buddies, Steph, has. We were standing on a packed bus, and, naturally, there’s nowhere to go. A very rude (which isn’t typical) Tanzanian, started tapping Steph’s forehead as if it was the most normal occurrence in the world. The look on her face said it all. I gently put my arm around her and boxed the Tanzanian out of our lives. Tapping someone’s forehead repeatedly saying “sista, sista, sista” is really very unacceptable. Haha.

So when I go into town to get food or travel, I get on the one and only dala (minibus) that comes through my village at anywhere between 6:30am and 8am. I like and dislike this. I dislike this because there is only one dala and it’s usually standing-in-the-doorway-room only. However, I like the fact that the driver and kondas (helpers) all know me and help me out. Right away we exchange the usual greetings and then they take my backpack (if it’s packed full) and put it in the front seat so I can squeeze myself into the doorway. They take care of me. They make sure I’m in the right place, and if I’m traveling further, they make sure I get on the right bus. In general, Tanzanian’s are extremely helpful. They will drop everything just to walk you to the correct spot for the bus, an unfamiliar guesti, or the shop that sells garlic.

Also, I find it baffling that no matter if you have a seat, are standing, holding a child on your lap, or have an armpit in your face; the price for the bus ticket is the same for everyone. Hmm.

One simple request.

Dear daladala drivers,

Please turn down the Tanzanian radio station. It’s already hard enough to hear my own thoughts over the rattling of the windows that may or may not break at any point in time.

Sincerely,

Mzungu

I love the palm tree outside my window

I appreciate the way the children interact with one another here. They take care of each other. Every time I look around I see an older child holding a younger child, comforting them. It’s refreshing to know that children can be so attentive when they themselves aren’t quite old enough to care for themselves completely.

Every day I’ll hear this slow scraping of a living creature moving on my roof. It’ll traverse the length of my roof up near the peak where there’s a tiny opening. I’ve seen it poke it’s little head in, but I’ve never quite been able to make out what it was. I decided one day to throw a marker at it and figure it out once and for all. In my head I was saying, “please be a lizard, please be a lizard”, afraid that a rat would free fall from my roof. Fortunately, it was a huge-ass lizard.  I mean this guy was big. I’d make all that noise if I were his size too. So, now I know whenever I hear him it’s a lizard, not a rat.

I’ve actually had a rat-free streak for the last couple weeks. Or at least none that I know of. I’ve been better at plugging up the cracks of my doors at night, as to deter them from entering. The malaria pills have been giving me insomnia lately, and I think sometimes makes me hear things at night, so I’ve been paranoid. But to no avail when I get up in the morning, take a look around, and only see lizard poop.

The other morning I helped weigh babies at the Zahanati (Health Dispensary). It was amazing. They always cry when they’re put up on the hook and their mama lets go. I’d cry too if I was just hanging there, all eyes on me. To my astonishment, most of the babies/children were in the green zone. There were maybe 10 of the 45 total that had either lost weight, or had never made it up to the green zone. These are the mamas I’d like to work with.

Speaking of work, I’ve been making progress on the Village Situational Analysis (VSA). It’s a comprehensive assessment we have to complete within the first three months of being at site (so, by Mid-March). We’ve had to set up village meetings, village leaders meetings, family interviews, school interviews, health dispensary interviews, and interviews with the youth. I’ve got a few more interviews to do, and then I’ve just got to type it up. Which is easier said than done with no electricity. Looks like I’m back to middle school when we’d have to hand write everything before we got our allotted computer time.

Ok, I think this guesti might kick us out soon. When’s the latest you can stay before they expect you to pay for another night? I think 1pm might be pushing it…

Rambling ramble

My apologies for the length of time that has passed since I’ve last written. However, expect this to be the norm. Internet opportunities and chances for electricity are, sadly, few and far between.

First of all, I’m grateful for being relatively close to two other current PCV’s. My closest “site mate” (which means closest volunteer in the nearest village” is a 20 minute walk from my house. The other close volunteer is another hour walk. It’s just nice to know if I need anything or if something goes wrong (knock on wood), they’re close enough to me to come over and help. However, I’m trying not to think about the future; for they are finished here in Tanzania in July, and the next round of newbies (I won’t be a newbie anymore!) won’t arrive until probably December. By then, though, I will hopefully be all settled in and will have projects underway. Maybe I’ll try to plan some traveling trips during those lonely 5 months.

I’m not sure if I’ve written about this, but the Primary School has been in session for about a month now. Since I live so close to the school, it never fails that I routinely get woken up at 6:30am every morning to the sound of their muffled conversations as they sweep dirt. Sweeping dirt should be a whole separate blog post, haha. It’s difficult to sleep much past then anyway, life in Africa starts even before the sun rises.

To my dismay, mango season is now over. As depressing as this is, I have orange season to look forward to in July and August. Apparently bananas and pineapples are always in season, however, it is a chore to track them down. On a lighter note, I found a cucumber in the market last weekend! Score! The PC Medical Officers would scold me, because I didn’t peel and boil the bacteria (and taste) off of it before consuming. I’m sorry doc, that’ll ruin the cucumber; I’ll take my chances with diarrhea, thank you.

Since lizards like to live in my house and climb my walls, they also like to poop on my floors too. Now, I don’t mind the lizards, they probably eat bugs and spiders that I don’t have to kill myself. It’s deciphering between the lizard poop and rat poop that has proven difficult. However, I figured it out (please don’t ask me how). In case you’d like to know, lizard poop has a white tip at the end of it. Rat poop doesn’t. This comforts me when all I see in the morning is white-tipped poop, this means the rats have stayed away yet one more night.

The rat killing stories I’m hearing from my site mate are horrifying and I hope to never have to use a hockey slap shot move to kill a rat, although I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. His tips will be useful though, to this I have no doubt. Don’t worry, you can look forward to a very disgusting and descriptive post at that time.

I’m traveling to Mtwara on the coast this weekend. Despite what you may think, this is not considered a “city”. From what I hear it’s more like a glorified town. However, there will be internet access there, so you can expect another post about how awesome the Indian Ocean is in the next few days.

Hope everyone’s doing well! Keep in touch. Cheers!

The Woes of Transportation

I realize I never explained why traveling and transportation is incredibly cumbersome. Let me begin by explaining the bus ride from Dar es Salaam to Masasi on the coast in the South. In the dry season, it’s supposed to take 9 hours. In the rainy season, expect it to take as long as 12 hours. Since it’s rainy season from Dec. – March, it took us 15 hours, give or take a flat tire. Peace Corps took the liberty of booking us the entire back row of the bus. I don’t care if you’re on the newly paved roads of America, everyone knows the back row is ALWAYS the bumpiest. This bus was special. The 6 seats were separated into two groups of three by a huge crack that was somewhat uneven. My seat was really half a seat, and my fellow PCV’s seat wasn’t actually a seat at all. Every bump we’d go over her seat would detach from the seatback, she’d have to stand up and push it back on. The normal 9 hour ride is on half paved, half unpaved roads. I think we were somewhere in the middle of the unpaved road and our bus got stuck in the mud. People were made to exit the bus into about a half calf-full of mud. I chose to take the window route and jumped onto the grassy bank nearby. It only took an hour and a half to get the bus moving again. I pitied the men who had to literally dig the bus out of the mud. That did NOT look fun. We then had a flat tire, which was only a half hour wait, quite fast I might add.

Then came the weigh station. Mind you, there were four of us with luggage which consisted of everything we brought for our entire 2 years here. Along with the sacks of who knows what was packed onto the bus, we were extremely overweight. I happened to glance down and saw them unloading some of our luggage. They put a few pieces back in through the windows in the middle of the bus, I suppose to balance the weight. I noticed one of my pieces and a fellow PCV’s bag didn’t get put back on the bus, and we drove away to get weighed again. We passed that time, and then turned the opposite way of where we’d left our bags. Now, getting mad or freaking out doesn’t get you anywhere here. We stopped at a nearby gas station to pick up some of the people we dropped off before the weigh station, and waited there for a time. Luckily I glanced out the window and saw them loading our luggage back onto the bus. Sneaky.

After the weigh station, we had a little over two and a half hours to go. It was dark, and there were half-in-the-bag PCV’s waiting to greet us upon our arrival. We just wanted to get off that dang bus.

I’m not complaining, because it really was sort of funny how long it took us to travel to our sites as compared to other PCV’s in our class. And, it wasn’t all madness and frustrations; we eventually made the bus ride into a sort of twisted roller coaster ride. Anything to get a little laugh out of the situation. Since we’d get air on most the big bumps, we’d raise our hands up and pretend we were riding Raging Bull or good ole’ rickety Viper.

Daladala rides are a whole different kind of fun. The saying really is true that the bus (or in this case, glorified minibus) really doesn’t leave until it’s full. In which case it then travels 50 feet and picks up another 17 people which could have made the dala full in the first place if they’d gone the extra mile to walk to the standi. Let’s see, I’ve been here a little over three months now, and I don’t think I’ve had so many butts, boobs, armpits, faces, or chickens in my face as I have in my entire life. Personal space is lost on Tanzanians. Again, getting frustrated will get you nowhere. Looking out the window (if you’re lucky to get a seat, not to mention a window seat) has proven the best thing to do in these situations.

I’m sure I will become somewhat used to dalas and bus rides, it’s only a matter of time.

Nonetheless, if I have a choice (which is rare), I’m very careful about my seat selection.

Greetings, A Visit to the Zahanati, African Randomness

Here in Tanzania, greetings are essential. There are on average about 20 different ways to say “hey, how are you?” in Kiswahili; you never know which one they’re gonna throw at you next. Now, in America you’re allowed to let the person (depending on how well you know them, or care to tell them) know if you’ve had the shittiest day of your life. Here, all of the possible answers are a variation of “I’m good.” There’s even a “I’m peaceful” answer. Apparently in Tanzania, you’re not allowed to experience a semi-bad day. Which is a blessing and a curse. The other day I biked to and from town. Now mind you it’s the rainy season and none of the roads in my Region are paved, so as I was going up those hills and getting greeted left and right, my answer was always “I’m good!” Which, after a while, I had to laugh to myself because I actually thought about what I was saying, and as much as I didn’t feel good, I started to make myself believe that I was, in fact, “good”. So much of the time I feel like I’m giving a robotic answer, but I actually had to stop and think about what I was saying and it made me laugh, which in turn made the hills seem somehow less steep and less muddy J

Also, here in Tanzania, giving respect to your elders is a must. There’s a word, “Shikamoo”, response “Marahaba.” I say it to anyone I think who looks older than me, and children say it to me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but when you’ve got a baby strapped to your back and one on your hip, I don’t care if you’re 16, I’m going to Shikamoo you. They laugh if I’m wrong. Anyway, it’s an amazing feeling when you’re walking by an elder and you Shikamoo them. Maybe they’re not expecting you to know Kiswahili; they’re especially not expecting you to know the need to Shikamoo. I love it when their eyes light up, they smile with a grin full of teeth (sometimes not, ha), and give a polite “Marahaba.”

Today I went to the Zahanati (Health Dispensary). A Clinical Officer works there, equivalent to our RN’s in the states. She gave me a tour, which consists of a waiting room, an examination room, a delivery table (!), a recovery bed, and a fridge running on solar power which holds vaccines of all sorts. I also found out the villagers are able to get tested for HIV, which is valuable knowledge for my future work. My level of excitement sky-rocketed when I saw that rustic, semi-stained delivery table. I thought back to my time in NY, when I was shadowing a CNM and had the pleasure of assisting with a delivery. I believe this is the exact right place for me to make a difference. Thing is, everything here takes time. Patience really is a virtue.

Let me tell you, cooking in Africa is no small feat. First of all, it’s a gamble as to what’s available in the village. It’s another gamble as to what’s available if you make the trek into town. Luckily it’s mango season, so those are plentiful. However, it turns out if you don’t own a farm and harvest all the food you eat, finding nutritious food is difficult! I’m afraid I’m in the wrong profession. Nonetheless, once you do find food to cook, preparation and cooking takes about on average 2-3 hours depending on how intricate you desire to be. You know the saying (now forgive me if this is somewhat off, because every time I think of it in my head it doesn’t sound quite right), but… “A watched teapot never boils”, well, take it from me, it might take 40 minutes, but it WILL boil damn it!

And anther thing, I will never again complain about turning the knob on an electric stove, or washing each dirty dish separately in a sink under running water ever again. And you can quote me on that.

Random tid-bit from today. Snakes are nothing to be shrugged off. I got water for the first time from my well today (one reason to welcome the rainy season), and saw a snake swimming around. Call me naïve, bit I really didn’t think anything of it at the time, just made sure it didn’t swim into my bucket without my knowing. One of the teachers happened to be walking by and I mentioned it to him. About 20 minutes later he, an army of teachers, and what seemed like half the villagers came by to fish the snake out of my well. I’d come by for the show too, wouldn’t you? Don’t ask me how, but they managed to get it into the bucket with nothing more than a flashlight and long stick. Once inside, everyone stepped back save the guinea pig who got the lucky job of taking the bucket into the road, tipping it over and killing it. I repeat, Snakes are (I guess) nothing to be shrugged off. And here I was just going to watch him swim around for a while.

Ok, I’m patiently waiting under my mosquito net for the sound of the pitter-patter of rats in my house. Maybe they won’t show up tonight. Wishful thinking, I’m sure. Oh the joys of living in Africa J