Chicken anyone?

Today I taught a 55 year old man to use Microsoft Word. He had never used a mouse or a keyboard before. He’s been working on a printing press in the basement of the Diocesan office that is older than him.
He also rides his bike 10km to work each morning. And back again. Woah. Riding your bike in Tanzania is quite a risky adventure. With cars—or rather SUVs or Japanese vans full of 30 people (called daladalas)---swerving every which way to get where they need to go faster than…

The other Saturday when driving to Nagulo parish a chicken ran across the road. Why?
Well…we all already no the answer to that one. But in my sheltered life I had never actually seen a chicken cross the road---to get to the other side.

“How much is a chicken around here?”
I was told they cost about 3,000 shillings---about 2.5 dollars (not that you can quote me on that with the value of the dollar falling by the day…).

We pull up in our Land Cruiser. You can always tell you’re almost there because there is a crowd of over a hundred people gathered outside a clay-brick church. We are greeted by a choir of the older women of the parish singing welcome songs and banging on homemade goat-hide drums and tin-can maracas.
We exit our huge, old vehice.
Mzee (old man) John, and John the driver. And me. Me, the random white girl who hops out of the car in her Western top and skirt (though covering more than below mid-calf!). Everyone is surprised to see my face—and surprised I can greet them in their own language, plus “Good Morning” in the local tribal language, Chigogo.
The women finish their song. The kids join in clapping and cheering another one. We thank them and are then ushered to the priests house for “chai;” which literally means tea in Swahili, but also means you get some bites as well.
We are given tea with milk and sugar. You wouldn’t tell by the looks of it, but this parish must have a tad more money if they’re willing to splurge and put milk in our tea! Seriously. I’ve never had tea with milk in a village. Often times the tea tastes a bit funny due to the salty water that is dug from the wells, (although often masked in quite a load of sugar you’d think you were at Waffle House).
Once everyone has eaten their fill of fresh, warm, greasy doughnuts, we head back to the church. John asks me if I need to “wash my hands.” I usually try to visit the “necessary room” (as my Nana calls it) only once per village visit.

We walk the 500 meters in the hot, dry heat back to the church. The children are sitting at the front of one side of the church. The eight-ten men have just enough room to fit in the last “pew,” a handmade wooden bench that would only fit 6 American men. Speaking of space—there is much less idea of personal space here. You will see a six foot long bench in a parish with 8 people on it. Then two more will come over and squeeze in.
When I was teaching kids would come Up in my face with their paper and questions. I had to give a little demonstration (in a humorous manner of course) about “the American personal bubble.”
They didn’t really get it. But they laughed. Every time…

So back to Nagulo. The children and ten men on one side of the church. The other half was women. Old women, smiling women, babies on the backs of women, women breast feeding, women singing, women frowning and half asleep, women in colorful cloth covering most of their body and half of their head.
I can never get enough of seeing women in USA or TEXAS bandanas. Makes me smile. everytime.
Red, White and Blue. You never see another flag.

And so the festivities begin. We all stand together to pray.
Although I cannot form a particularly potent prayer in Swahili I can understand when others are praying. Everyone is always thankful for the safe arrival of their visitors. Like I’ve said before, traveling by car in Tanzania isn’t a pleasurable experience.

The distribution of uniforms, school supplies and shoes carries on as in any other parish.
While all the children were off (somewhere..) changing into their new clothes, I asked if the “mamas” could teach me to play the drum. There is no entertainment like trying to get a mzungu to find an African beat. Hopeless. But we had some laughs. Or, rather, they did…

Once all the children changed to make sure their clothes and shoes fit alright we three visitors at the front of the church were told to stand. Eight children (in four pairs of similar heights) swing their arms from side to side as they sing a song they wrote together with the pastor’s wife.
They dance to the front of the church (after a few children here and there have been swatted or shoved out of the way of the center isle). Four kids in order of shortest to tallest form on either side of us. When the song is finished I am given a box with 12 fresh eggs. (Note that eggs in this country go for 200 shillings each---about 16 cents, (more expensive than in the US) and quite a sacrificial gift coming from a small village almost two hours from Dodoma.
Then comes the exciting part. I am handed a chicken. A live, squawking, terrified chicken. A once vegan, struggling vegetarian who won’t buy leather shoes or toothpaste tested on animals---is handed a chicken. yum yum. We each got one. Me, John, and the other John.

As I was thanking Nagulo parish for my gifts I almost began to cry. I felt so at home in this place somehow. People's words, and eyes and smiles were so kind. When I made my terrible jokes in Swahili they laughed. I could make the kids smile for photos, (not an easy feat in most places!). Many of the guardians came over and greeted me and shook my hand. It was a wonderful visit.

But then we had to go back to the priest’s house so they could cook us lunch!
First tea with milk, then eggs, then a chicken, now lunch!
It was all too much.

I sat awkwardly on a chair in the shade with 6 mzee men talking about the weather. At one point we began talking about New York City, (in a combination of English and Swahili---KiswaInglish). They were asking how people get around, on foot, by bike, by car.
Yes, all those.
And via the subway.
The what?
You walk down the stairs, and you are underground, under the huge, tall buildings. you get on a fast train, (trains in this country are slower than buses), and when you get off you climb the stairs and find yourself in another part of the city.
“You go underground, as in, UNDER the buildings?”
This poor old man—he was so shocked I nearly thought he would fall out of his chair.
But just imagine…your whole life…mud bricks, dirt floors, a thatch roof that you have to rebuild (possibly along with your whole house) after each rainy season; digging wells, carrying water on your head for miles, then, praise Jesus, you get a bike.
The thought of walking down, down, deep, underground, and finding a train down there??? What?
The only thing that is underground for him is water.
Lifegiving water.
And roots. And rocks.
And for me having a live chicken handed to me was quite the shock. In more ways than one.

Cars, Cows and Cleaners

This weekend was the big Talladega Nascar race. I have, most unfortunately, never been to a Nascar gathering in my life.
It seems a bit odd though; sitting around a track and watching cars drive around in a circle really really fast. I imagine the most exciting parts are the times when a car smashes into a wall or flips over across the runway. And everyone is excited…although hoping no one gets killed.
But as I’ve said…I’ve never been to a Nascar race.

Saturday we went to Fufu. Fufu is a village about two hours outside of Dodoma on a long, straight, sandy dirt road. In the dry season the bumps and ditches aren’t too bad. The wet season, come November, will make passing on the road a nightmare.

As we drive along there are people walking or riding bikes on either side of the road. On their heads carrying water, sticks, vegetables, charcoal. Some even have 10+ chickens hanging upside down off their handlebars. I bet PETA would have something to say about that!

Just as the whole “left-hand side of the road” doesn’t exist outside the city, people never really seem to follow a pattern of which side they walk on.

One bulky teenage boy had on shorts and a soccer jersey. Chewing on some sugarcane he turned his head to watch as we drove by. Then he continued on his way with a sack of flour the size of a car tire sitting gently on his head.

Most bikes hear the car coming and have to stop their bike quickly and run it off to the side of the road. Then they turn and watch us as we drive past. The sand and gravel doesn’t really lend for stability on the edge of the path when a large Land Rover is driving relatively fast past you and there are three buckets of precious water hanging off your bike.

Older people walking past with canes, and mothers with babies strapped to their backs. They too are seen running out of the way of the car coming. Off the side of the road into a shallow ditch and up into the bushes a bit. And when you see their faces as you pass they aren’t upset or annoyed. They just look curiously into the windows of the car to see who is inside.

There were quite a few cows in view. The cows are different from our cows. But they act the same of course. They were mostly seen gathered in packs of 30 around a not-so-big leafless tree, apparently trying to stay cool in the “shade.” There were a lot of donkeys in Fufu as well. It is interesting and somehow refreshing to watch women walk behind two donkeys who have been laden with four huge yellow plastic (previously cooking oil) buckets full of water. It feels like a picture we would have drawn in school trying to portray “back then.”

But it isn’t back then of course. It is now. And it isn’t just here in Fufu. And it isn’t just in Tanzania. There are many programs training locals to use homemade plows; from wood, cloth, rope, scrap metal. It is an example of what is called “appropriate technology.” In South Africa they have wells that manually pump water by the merry go round that kids play on and push in a circle. One environmental NGO in Dodoma works with women in building new stoves that produce less smoke, (they cook indoors) and use less wood. In rural Peru there are projects of “drip irrigation” where large barrels are built to collect rain water—and then very small amounts of water are released at a time over the crops. Appropriate technology in theory uses local materials, local labor and technology which is appropriate for local culture and wealth.

Speaking of local crafts, (well, sorta), I have to mention the shoes that are made locally in Tanzania. Used rubber, (from car or bike tires) are cut into strips and made into sandals, held together by small, used nails. They are worn mostly by boys and men. They are thick and sturdy. And they form to your foot like Birkenstocks. Pretty cool, eh? And they cost less than a dollar to make. If you want a pair of awesome hippie authentic recycled rubber sandals, just let me know! ;)

That is one of the things I appreciate most about Tanzania. They don’t throw anything away. Everything can be fixed. At CAMS we have this magically wonderful man who can fix anything. Anything from a water heater to a stove to a water filter to a car to an iron. He is great. And all over town you’ll find shops, or just a chair and a table, where someone is waiting to fix—whatever it is you need fixed. In the US it is cheaper to just throw a vacuum cleaner, phone or VCR away rather than taking it to the repair shop. What a waste.

I remember stories about how in Louisiana after Katrina there were numerous fridges sitting at the curb waiting to be hauled off and thrown away. No one wanted to deal with cleaning all the food out of it. I don’t blame them. Who would want that job?
Plenty of people here in Tanzania! Cleaning is a huge industry. Millions (mostly women) make their living cleaning. Cleaning office buildings, churches, schools, the streets or houses.

Housecleaners here often have their own housecleaners.

People with cars hire people to drive them. And why not; Driving here isn’t exactly a pleasurable experience.
It was a bit of an adjustment though; having people hired to drive you long distances and wait long hours; getting someone to wash your floors, iron your clothes and put them away for you. Having a bowl and pitcher of water brought before you so they could rinse your hands for you before eating the meal they prepared for you. (Like what I used to do for the priest when I was an acolyte...)
Sitting at the front of a village church I have to introduce myself. I am Kelly. I am American. I have been in Tanzania teaching for one year. Now I work for the Carpenter’s Kids.
Then later my colleague adds to my introduction. She is the daughter of a Bishop in the US. She has left her home: her my family and friends to come here to Tanzania to work for orphans.
And yes. All true. But I enjoy my job. I don’t feel I am “doing a good thing for the world” anymore than anyone else…anywhere, (well except maybe George Bush...or the owner of Exxon, or Mugabe in Zimbabwe...).
We all are just doing what we are good at --- or what we enjoy. Or both if we’re lucky. And I am learning a lot being here. But mostly I just feel lucky to know that next year if I go to the Nascar race in Talladega…I’ll think back on a year ago and remember how different it was: a Saturday, in a large car, driving on unpaved roads, people watching, without cell phone service, drinking overly sweet tea and eating unhealthy carbohydrates…
or maybe, in many ways, it’ll be exactly the same.