You Can't Leave the Table until...

How often growing up did your parents tell you to clean your plate because there are people starving in Africa?
Lots.
And then all kids think, "Okay, well then let's pack it up and mail it there!"
But no one does that---no one just mails half a meatloaf or leftover turkey across the ocean.
And why not?

In the course of the last two weeks I have decided that truly, really, officially...what I don't eat Can be sent to Africa.
(And by Africa I do mean the huge, diverse, 50+ country continent where humans began!)

So back to food.
mmmm...food. We all love food. Sitting at a table with a huge homemade Lasagna prepared for 4.
If I invited a friend it would feed 5. If Jesus came to the door and was hungry it would feed 6. We all would leave the table satisfied and not hungry for more. But had our two extra guests not arrived we would each most likely consume more.
Why?
"Because we don't want it to waste."
right?
Okay.
I get it.
I think.

But what if...what if we made less Lasagna, bought less beef, a little less cheese. Saved 3 dollars.
Now we don't need to send our extra Lasagna to Tanzania or Somalia or Zimbabwe...We have 3 dollars we can send.
That was just one meal.
It is interesting to think about.
When gas prices we crazy high a few months ago, (not that I remember since I don't have a car) people cut corners---ate out less, or tipped their waitress less (ahem...), or bought Tecate beer instead of Corona. Didn't drive to the store 3 times after dinner---but would actually stop, make a list, think, think. Plan.

So why don't we make the same "budget adjustments" Just Because. For Charity. For others. For people...
for People...Who are Way more amazing and wonderful and worth it than the inside of your gas tank. Duh.

So because I have homework to do I won't delay my conclusion any longer.

The more I consume, the less there is for others. The more I eat on a regular basis---the more people predict I will eat. The more resources I consume, the bigger DENTofaBlackhole I leave behind me. The more I eat and buy and have bought for me, (food or otherwise)---the more money I spend on me. Just me. Me! The more excess adipose tissue I carry around---the more calories I consume to keep me moving, to keep my tummy full, to power my brain. What a waste...when we can all function on less. much less.
And we as Episcopalians should agree. We think alcohol, sex and rock and roll are okay. Okay by Jesus!--as long as they are 'done' in moderation. The Buddha agreed. Balance. Yes. Balanced.

I eat more than my fair share. It doesn't make sense that just because we were lucky enough to be born in America---that we take it all for granted. It doesn't make sense that just because there are leftovers after nearly every meal at an American Family dinner that I should eat more, and my sister, and my father should eat more. If we all just breathed. Ate slower. Thought about it. Realized that for so so so many, food is rarely something that comes, just appears! everyday---much less 3+ times a day.

As I sit here typing on my own personal laptop in my own room in my apartment with my bike and my backpack and my student loans...I didn't Earn this. I didn't...really...actually work Hard to get this awesome life. It was given to me as a gift. A free gift. No strings attached. We use to hear a story with that moral each Christmas at St. Andrew's-Sewanee. "A gift. A free gift. No strings attached."

But I think that moral only gets to part of it.
There Are strings attached. As Christians...and as good human beings...in this interconnected and fragile world, it is not merely "the right thing to do," it is what we have to do. For our people in other countries, for our compatriots and for the planet--and those who follow after us. It is our moral obligation to consume less food, less clothing, less energy. Once again, For us, (health!), for others, (because it Is right and Feels right)...and for the planet, (because Al Gore said so!)

So I know I started with talking about sharing food with starving people. But I haven't written in awhile and my brain is just a mess of exams, epidemiology, biostatistics, obesity, malnutrition, AIDS and malaria...And BY THE WAY for the first time in history there are more people Way Overnourished--as in Fat and Obese than undernourished and hungry. What a conundrum. We Are that statistic. We started this "trend." But beneath all that and at the foundation of my brain these past few weeks...

I have come to believe that if everyone just consumes less, eats less, uses less, walks more...not only will you feel better (and have lower health care costs) but sometimes---and as it has been and will continue to be for me---sometimes small changes, like buying a CSA basket or walking 10 minutes after every meal, or sharing a meal with a friend instead of getting 2 entrees, or buying a CAMEL from Heifer International for Tanzanian farmers(don't get me started on camels...)
---you will start to feel differently. You will start to care more, to feel more, to give more. You will also find you have an extra 5 dollars to give to a charity or donate to The Human Rights Campaign, or buy a local organic Turkey for Thanksgiving...which my mom did. And even though I am a vegetarian I ate. And then shared the leftovers with my friends.

This post is dedicated to William Bennett. My favorite person to chat with before, during and after a Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter dinner...and any other time.
We miss you dearly.

Inspired by Dad's Pentecostal sermon

It has been way too long. It has been too long since I have written. But more than that it has been too long since I have just say back, stopped moving, and let myself just be. I can barely comprehend that it has been over 5 months since I was in Tanzania. And look at me--I feel as if I have done nothing. Not only have I done nothing to promote the cause of The Carpenter's Kids program--but I also have rarely written to my friends back in Dodoma. I got into grad. school. That is pretty much the extent of my "accomplishments" since mid-December.
But I also feel it was just last week that I was on a bumpy road on my way out to some dusty village somewhere to join in singing and dancing and praying and laughing while snapping photos and shaking numerous dry, cracked, warm and loving hands.

Mostly I just want to make sure I don't forget. If I lead my life in the average American dizziness of unawareness--just thinking of work, sleep, food, friends, sleep some more...how have my travels expanded my mind, my world view? Sure my brain processes some things differently. Sure, I have more stories starting with, "When I was in Africa..."
But really, if I don't devote more of my time to telling the story, more of my money, more of my prayers, more of my energy towards the people of Tanzania...then I feel somehow that I have failed.

Tanzanian's are some of the kindest, warmest, compassionate and selfless people I will ever meet. I feel blessed to have been a part of their culture and their communities, even if just for awhile. I hope that I do take my MPH degree in Global Health and go back to help the people that inspired me to study public health to begin with.

But for now I need to continue telling the story. I have not yet had any of my photos of Tanzania printed yet. Somehow I feel that by printing them, organizing them, and putting them into an album--it'll be a sign that that chapter of my life, that block of time, is over. That there are not more photos to add to the story...

But memories, friends, adventures, faces, generosity, don't just end when the last photo is taken, when the last page is full. Just as the last words of the Bible were written so long ago...
and yet the love and energy and grace of the spirit is active and changing and developing in and out and through each of us every day. In the same way I hope that the life I had in Tanzania will not be just a story of days past, but an ever-present mindset and manner of interpreting my current life, here in the USA.
I will with God's help.

A drought in Georgia

I just filled up my Brita water filter. I wonder how much "cleaner" it actually gets. But even without putting it through the trendy carbon filter---we can still all drink it. It still tastes fine.
Just think, what if everytime you walked up to the kitchen sink you had to boil the water before using it.
then again, what if everytime you wanted water from your faucet, it wasn't there. As in, well, you didn't have a faucet. You had to hike 5-10 miles to get it. every time.

But today I'm not in the business of "what ifs" and "you should feel lucky you have the life you do." That has never really been my goal here.
really, it's just awareness. Compassion. Understanding. Perspective.

Women living in most of rural Africa have the "time" to walk miles for water---because, basically, along with child-rearing and gathering fuel, that's their job. My mom, driving thirty minutes, and working 8+ hours, and driving home again, there's no time for gathering water. But my mom's life isn't any Better. It isn't any less stressful. It's just different. Just like anywhere in the world. No matter the society, or economic system, moms, (and yes, dads too) will always have certain aspects of their life that they wish they didn't have to do: taxes, dog washing, car maintenance bills, putting food on the table, clothing their children, buying malaria medicine, paying for college...
who is to say whose life is more work.
it all depends on how you look at it.

As I hear the rain come pouring down in a loud rush, accompanied by thunder and flashes of light, I remember the geography lessons I taught at CAMS; heavy short-lived, intense rainfall doesn't necessarily help raise the water table. The water often times does not have time to infiltrate into the soil before washing away with the flow to the closest sewer down hill.
I think of people in this state who must hear the rain and think, "good, soon I'll be able to fill up my in-ground pool." Or, "now I won't feel bad about watering my lawn twice a day." (yeah right, as if they ever really felt "bad").
wow. People have known for months about our drought--and yet they also know that somehow whenever they want to flush their toilet or wash their dishes...the water will be there. This is America! hmmm...
A friend at work is proud that he showers twice a day. Proud? what? guess he's somehow cleaner than me.
but why? who cares?
he is aware of the drought--but just doesn't change his habits. doesn't feel that the drought warning affects him.
But this isn't a personal attack on Georgians who take long or lots of showers.
But perhaps it is a reason for me to retract my statement about awareness.
Americans are aware of a lot of things in the world outside. We watch the news, (but don't get me started on US media "coverage" on international events), we watch based-on a true story movies, documentaries, in-depth articles, see heart-wrenching photos. And we are affected. Our mind, the way we think or feel changes. We have simpathy, sadness, even anger perhaps.
but only for those minutes, that hour, or that day.
It is so easy to just, well...forget.
No. no. Not forget. That's the wrong word. You forget phone numbers or doctor's appointments or milk at the grocery store. You don't forget the face of tiny orphan, or a cloudy well lined with frogs and salamanders. You don't forget the child with HIV who monthly travels alone to town to receive her ARV shot. You don't forget that hundreds and thousands are dying in Sudan, or that over a thousand have died in Kenya because two politicians disagree.

But it is easy to look away. It is easy to just get up in the morning, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, go to work, come home, read or watch tv, say your prayers, go to sleep, wake up again. And not once thinking of the orphans, or the beaten down, or the corruption or the hunger.

And here I am. Here I am.
I was in Tanzania for over a year. I lived and worked there and daily existed in a world that is easily ignored. Not intentionally, not with any negativity, just, "out of sight, out of mind."
And I have to admit that in my three months being home from Tanzania I have too often had days go by where I didn't think of, pray for, or talk about my love, my concern, my friends, my time, my work in Dodoma, Tanzania. It is hard to admit. It is hard to admit that as I lay in bed for two days with the flu I felt so miserable--and yet I knew, without a doubt, I'd be okay. I had a clean bed, running water, medicine, food, blankets...parents.
So many people in this world get sick--with no guarantee that there is someone to care for them, that there is a cure, or the time, or the luxury--to be sick.

It's a luxury to be sick. To take a day off. To just lay there and do nothing.
It's a luxury to turn down food, to say "no thanks" when someone offers you something to eat or drink.

just think. How powerful that is. How lucky we are to be able to say, "no thanks" to food. To have our water glasses at a restaurant filled and re-filled--never even let to fall below halfway full, (or is it half empty?).

But like I said before, I'm not here to make you feel like you should appreciate your life more. I'm not here to say, "hey, everytime you shower just think of how many villagers could end their life long thirst with the gallons you just used."

no. I am just writing because at this point, tonight, it's all I can do. I've been feeling drained, dried out, and in need of a reminder of the people I've met and the work I want to continue to do.

And I think of my friends on the other side of the world, who will soon be waking up. They will pile into a Land cruiser, drive over an hour to arrive at a small, mud-brick church. With two boxes, a large bag, and huge, tired smiles, they will bring a glimmer of hope to a few kids who need a uniform and some shoes so they can go to school.

I'm an African?

Someone told me I should keep writing. The experiences I had in Tanzania are still forming in me. There is still more that perhaps needs to be expressed. She was right.

First off, two weeks ago I was reading an article in Newsweek about the current conflict in Kenya. The article mentioned how "all were surprised" at the fighting in Kenya because it is the only peaceful country in East Africa.

Wait, what? Tanzania not only has a great history absent of any major conflict, but also is a place where everyone gets along. People rarely distinguish themselves as one tribe or another unless they are just speaking of their traditions, region or native tongue. I feel personally offended somehow when people don't recognize Tanzania's accomplishments--or when they write an article on East Africa and barely mention it as Kenya's neighbor to the south.

Today at work I mentioned the amount of pasta waste---how Huge the servings are! Two starving Tanzanian children could have enough food for a day with one person's leftover pasta at our restaurant. Perhaps an over exaggeration. But nearly true I imagine.

Then later I was going through the salad bin and tossing out all the slightly brown lettuce. A male co-worker who heard my earlier comment joked saying, "look at all that lettuce, it could feed a starving African child for a day!"
I laughed, adding that they don't eat lettuce in Tanzania, they want things with more nutrients, like spinach, beans or, you know, donkey poop. (My awkward attempt at a joke).

Another co-worker overheard me and said, "really? They eat that?"

And it's times like that when I wonder whether being American includes me in the same category. an average American, often so ignorant to the world outside our bubble.

But wait, wasn't I that ignorant? hmmm, no. But I Could have been! There are many things, many places, many cultures...that I know close to nothing about.
And so instead of thinking of others as dumb for being uninformed, I just find myself lucky. Damn lucky...for having such a rich experience.

The Moroccan guy at work calls me the other African at the restaurant.
me, African?
perhaps not.
But perhaps I am. Perhaps there is a part of me that is just a tad less American and a bean or spinach leaf or two more African.

Home...again...

Here I am.
I am sitting in a comfortable leather chair wearing the furry warm socks my grandmother gave me. The air is cold and I find myself still covering my head with a scarf and feeling that showing much more than my ankles and wrists in public is inappropriate. With my hood or scarf around me I can almost convince myself I am still there. Still shading my face from the strong massive sun. still covering myself so as to somehow blend in with the women around me.
Whereas here a scarf on my head makes me stick out.
But I never was the trendy type.

Last time I sat at a computer I was perching on the edge of a hard homemade wooden chair in a hot hot internet cafe wishing for the cold. As sweat dripped down my face with each sentence I typed I smiled dreaming of being cold and shivering on the way to church on Christmas Eve. And now I have it. Atlanta is cold. And now I yearn to feel the African sun on my toes...to feel the warmth. That genuine warmth.

and so the saying goes...

But since arriving home five days ago I have not missed Tanzania. Not in the way people might suspect when they ask, "How is it being home?"
I have enjoyed being with family and friends. Enjoyed seeing some faces from years past. And when we speak, our kind and familiar words suggest not a day has gone by. What a lovely feeling. Our hugs and smiles suggest that we still know each other quite well. And in many ways it's true.
But something inside feels as if I am meeting them for the first time. Not because they are funnier or skinnier or happier or taller than a year or two ago...but because it is me that is not quite the same person as before. Not a new person, not different, not kinder or quieter or changed really. Just---rewired. A few nuts and bolts have been rearranged.
Everything I see, every word that I hear, now is processed through a slightly altered machine.



What I miss about Tanzania isn't the huge shining sun, the gorgeous sky, or even the beautiful fabulous kind and loving people you find everywhere. It isn't the slow pace of life, the relaxed attitude of everyone, the taste of my roommate's cooking or the smell of flowers on my walk (not drive!) to work. It isn't the overwhelming welcome and smiles that I received each morning entering the office at work, or in a distant village. It isn't the tasty lunch that cost less than a dollar or the fresh fruit that was so sweet, and so fresh, (and did I say cheap?). It definitely isn't the English services at the Cathedral that I giggled my way through; or even the evenings of prayer and song with friends in our attempt to make amends for the disaster that always was Sunday morning in Dodoma. It isn't the jokes and snickering and comments of my charming, brilliant and entertaining students.
It isn't my closest friends, or my boyfriend, (what?) or the new Swahili or Gogo words that I learned each and every day.

It is feeling at home. And not like coming home for Christmas after being away at college. Not coming home after a week of stressful traveling. Not the cliche "Home Sweet Home" warm and fuzzy I want some of dad's meatloaf and mom's chocolate chip cookies wanna pet my dog and sleep in my own bed and make fun of my parents with my siblings coming home.

I miss feeling at home in a place that is not naturally home. Feeling safe and comfortable and secure and loved in a country, in a town, in a community where you arrived not knowing anyone.
And leaving I now somehow feel that I know them and they know me even better than I thought. Of course my friends and co-workers were there for me all along--when I was sad, lonely, happy, or hopeless. But that's what they are there for right?

It was the the neighbors I rarely talked to, the thousands of faces from all the villages I visited, the taxi drivers I chatted with, the mango sellers, the tailor, the cucumber and green bean man, the lady who swept my house and washed my clothes, the dude who sold me cheesy Tanzanian souvenirs, the random children greeting me on their way to school...these are the ones that made Tanzania feel like home. These are the people that gave me the feeling of being home. Although I will forget faces, smells, words and names, the memories won't change.
Whereas most places hosting tourists have the attitude, "hurry up and go home," Tanzanians seem to say, "there's no hurry here--this, too is your home."

Clouds

Today is a Friday. Fridays are normally good days. Today feels different. It feels sad. A bit gloomy. A bit like anything could happen at any second that could just make me break down and cry. But it’s more than that. It isn’t really tears that need to be shed. It is more that some thought and reflection needs attention. Some prayers need to be whispered.

A close friend’s grandmother is in the hospital. What feels worse somehow is the suffering of her children and grandchildren…the pain in their voice and in their eyes. and yet the love expressed through their grief is encouraging and real.
Another close friend…her mother is sick. Not doing too well.
It’s more the confusion, the complete inability to understand, to comprehend…than a plaguing sadness.
Or is it?
And then it is hot. So hot outside. Not hot like laying on the beach and needing an ice cold refreshment and a soft breeze blowing through the palm trees hot. Hot as in trapped. Hot as in you feel so insignificant, so small; and it is difficult to take a deep breath. It isn’t the humidity. There is none. It has not yet rained. Those who rely on farming here—most of the population—are waiting. Waiting for God to provide rain for their fields. Waiting for a guarantee that they will be able to feed their children next year. Christmas. Yeah. It is a day on the calendar. A day of celebration within the church building. And that is it. Simple.
Walking down through town, I feel like I am in a daze. The same path I have walked 2-3 times a day for over 4 months…but today is different. Today I could only think of all the sadness and stillness around me. The boys asleep in the shade under a tree. Not because they are lazy, or even particularly sleepy, but because there is no job. Nothing to do. A man with no fingers and no toes begs for money in the palms—what is left—of his hands. Meanwhile he sits in the sun, leaning against a street sign with his eyes closed due to the bright sun. Mothers carrying their babies on their backs and 12 pineapples on their head, just hoping that they can sell at least 3. The thirty-something year old man with 4 pairs of shoes for sale. He hopes to earn enough money to pay for his bus fare to return to his home village to visit his family. The young boy skipping to school hasn’t eaten in two days. But today is the last day of school for summer break so he is happy. I think. One wonders what he will do when he doesn’t go to school. Who knows if he will return to school in January. Maybe his family will need his help on the farm, or selling nuts, or begging.
Music is playing from some taxi down below. A café across the street plays a different radio station. The music is happy, cheerful, but it feels fake; staged somehow. Distant.
Another child. HIV+. 12 years old. Both parents already dead.
It is Friday. Huge numbers of men and women walk towards the mosque. Time for prayers. What will be prayed for today? What personal prayers will be spoken silently under the sound of the familiar recitations and repeated words?

It seems that the sky is overcast now. Perhaps there is some hope for rain.
Or maybe it’s just a cloud that has come to shade us for awhile. To block out the intense heat for a few short moments. To give us a breath of cool air.
But soon it will move on to another town, another place. And we will be enveloped in hot air again. With a feeling of emptiness…just waiting to be filled.

Faces

There are signs Everywhere. Running down the middle of the three main streets in Dodoma there are huge photos of the Tanzanian president every 50 meters. The signs are attached to street lamps. When the holes in the middle of the streets were being dug about a month ago, we figured it was the same old activity: right before parliament comes to town—look busy.
Make it look like tax money is being spent on something useful in this, the “capital” city.
But to the shock and surprise of all of us, street lights went up—real ones! That actually work!
And then came the signs—first some CellTel and Vodacom signs (mobile companies) and then Kikwete. He isn’t at all a bad looking guy. He even looks good in bright yellow and bright green—the colors of CCM; the forever ruling party of Tanzania.
Some have argued with me that there are numerous other political parties in the country. But have they ever had any power or influence? I think not.
Although as an International Affairs major who basically studied, “what the US has done wrong in foreign and domestic politics,” I cannot say we are doing too much better.
But then again…
We would never have Massively large signs of Bush’s face posted up in three of four places around in a town the size of 3 Supersize Wal-Marts (including the parking lots).
It just seems they could have paved 3 new roads in town with the money spent on those signs. Even at the English service at the Cathedral Sunday morning, (yes, father I went to church…) during the prayers of the people the man prayed that “the government’s resources will be spent wisely and used in a manner that benefits the people of this nation.”

Even my youngest students laugh at the corruption of the government here, (which by many standards is actually quite low.) I didn’t even learn what corruption meant until I went to university. It’s just a different world, growing up on the African continent. But I don’t have to say that again…
Back when I was in highschool if you asked me if there had recently been a huge flood in Bangladesh, or how Zimbabwe’s economy was doing—I would have barely recognized on a map the location of those countries.
But these kids, they know. They may not understand all the details and politics behind certain news stories—but they just seem to be way more aware of the world around them then the average kid in the US.
Or maybe I just spent too much time hiding behind bushes and rolling in the dirt.

The dirt is wet. The sky has rained.
Just two days ago Dodoma got its first real rains since the end of the rainy season early this year. It was a wonderful feeling.
It’s as if the whole region of Dodoma breaths a sigh of relief with each drop that falls.

Early Saturday morning I headed to town for vegetables. I put on a long skirt—only my feet in my black Chacos could be seen. I also put on a thin long-sleeve shirt and a white scarf to cover my head and shoulders from the sun—only my hands and toes are showing. And yet I was not hot. It isn’t really the Heat of this place area that is too much, it is the sun. It is so intense, so close, so burning.
But we get the opposite advantage as well—the sky and the stars at night feel so near to the earth, they are so bright. One could just sit there for hours, looking at the sky. there are no clouds, and no pollution blocking the view. The Southern Cross is one constellation that can only be seen in the Southern Hemisphere. The world is awesome like that.

Back in the Northern Hemisphere an old friend wrote me an email. He listed the “famous sites” of Tanzania to make sure I’ve visited them all before I leave the country. Of course not—the major game parks were all too expensive for me to visit—and other places I have wanted to go have just not worked out in the schedule. I did come here to work after all. Not that I really feel like it is work. For me it is just another challenge, another learning experience. I mean I have deadlines and daily tasks and often get tired of typing or waiting for an email to send, and sitting on the third floor of a hot hot turquoise office with no curtains and dust everywhere…But even in those moments I am enjoying myself. I easily laugh at my situation here—and how I chose this; I chose to work in a small under-resourced, hot, sometimes chaotic office where everyone is forever sweating; and yet always have the energy to smile and ask you how you are.
Wonderful people.
This country has wonderful people.

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.

It's Personal

“Oh, you’re Episcopalian! Well I guess we could have had wine with dinner tonight!”

I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or to just accept the comment at face value. It’s true, most Episcopalians do enjoy a glass of wine…or two. And what’s wrong with that?
To most of us, absolutely nothing.

Here in Tanzania, generally speaking, Christians don’t drink. If you drink than you’re a drunk and if you’re a drunk, well then you must not be a Christian.
Or that’s my interpretation of it anyway.
Fair enough.
I respect that.

And many Christians of other denominations (whether from Tanzania or not) don't see Episcopalians as particularly “religious.” Our services are pretty much the same every week.
Quite predictable.
And for me, that is what draws me to church each week.
It’s like coming home.

But others may see it as boring...Just as we don’t have a very dynamic language about our feelings on God from week to week. We don’t often say things like, “It is God’s will that I have met you today,” or “I felt God calling me to work with the poor” (unless you're in seminary of course—in which case God is so active in your life you almost get bored of it! haha...inside joke).
We generally don’t lay hands on the sick during a service or pray for those who have not yet been Saved.
But some do.

Some people don’t think it’s church unless there is an organ playing old, familiar hymns. Others prefer a guitar and more upbeat tunes. Some of us feel it’s absolute chaos if the congregation doesn’t stand for the Gospel, or if there is grape juice instead of wine, or if someone just sits instead of kneeling for the Confession.

What I love about the Episcopal Church is that you’re free to be yourself. We don’t say “All are welcome.”
We announce: “The Episcopal Church welcomes You.”
Just as you are.

Maybe you think the hymns are the worst part of the service, (no matter how hard David Hurd tried to convince you otherwise), maybe you hate lots of liturgy, blah blah blah, I’ve know this by heart since I was seven, or maybe you doubt God’s existence, or perhaps you just want some free coffee and cake after the service…whatever you are and wherever you are in your life there is a place for you in the Episcopal Church.
But I'm just preaching to the choir...that's what I get for spending the better part of my life living in a seminary...

And so here we are in Tanzania. It is the holy month of Ramadhan. Growing up I must admit I hardly even knew what Ramadhan was. Living here, it feels that it is somehow a part of all our lives. Students at school are tired and hungry and can't participate in P.E.
Suddenly around town there are 4 times as many women covered completely from head to toe.
Each day, but mostly Fridays, there are huge crowds of people everywhere in the street, leaving the mosque or on their way: old people, small people, medium sized people, tan, olive or black, dressed in white, brown, black, red...

From sun up to sun down all healthy Muslims are fasting. No water, no food; some might even spit out their saliva.
And it is getting hotter here every day.

“Christians don’t fast,” one of my students said the other day in class.
I replied, “Some do.”
“Yeah, but they drink water when they fast.”

Do we fast? Why?
Why not?
Sure we give up coffee or chocolate or peanut butter for Lent—but does that really draw us closer to God in the end? For some it might.

Are people who celebrate only Christmas (and perhaps Easter) really Christians?
What about Christians who pray each day and read Scripture each day, but hate homosexuals? How can that be?
For me it is a hard issue to deal with.

I have met so, so, so many here in Tanzania who are very kind, caring and God-loving people. I sing with them and pray with them. I feel close to them and can talk openly with them about God and about my personal life.
And yet when the issue of homosexuality comes up I have to leave the room. They think it is not right—what the Episcopal Church is doing—or rather, what it has done. It is very puzzling for me to feel so close to these people and yet feel so far away. The only way I know how to cope is to remember that each of us is an individual.

We each have our own personal relationship with God.

We all interpret Scripture, or a song, or a prayer in our own way.
And that’s alright. right?

In every denomination and every religion there is something that is appealing to me. Pardon me for picking out the small things here:
I like that Muslims remove their shoes and wash their hands and feet before entering the mosque.
I like that Hindus and Sikhs often have dancing as part of their worship, and that they wear outward signs of their religion each day.
I like how Buddhists just sit. silently. gently. still.
I like how Baptists, (yes, Southern Baptists!) will tell you all about how God has been working in their hearts and in their lives during the week. It can be quite encouraging.
I like how Roman Catholics recognize Saints for certain blessings and protections.
I like how Jews maintain strong traditions and abide by certain laws no matter where they are living.
And I like the Episcopal Church because you can do any and all of these things and still be accepted and loved for who you are.

Just another day at the office

Today began just like every other day. I got up just as the sun was rising, (around 6:15) and went for a run. I think. I had some breakfast and was on my way to CAMS in time for class at 7:55am. Today I was teaching from the unit called “Urban Environments.” So boring. I mean really boring. Talking about the layout of cities, and the new monster-size shopping centers being built outside Manchester, UK. Speaking of monstrosities, I tried to describe WAL-MART to my students. I got really worked up and described it in such a negative manner I think I scared them! Haha…oh well, they’re use to the crazy American teacher giving the most random and rambling examples…

Then I was off to work. A nice 15 minute walk from school to town. As I pass older people I give the proper greeting, (for those superior to myself) and they give me their response. To some I decide to try out one of the Chigogo greetings I know. (Gogo is the native tribe to the Dodoma region). There are many kids wandering around as well—selling boiled eggs with salt (200 shillings--about 17.5 cents), or mandazi or peanuts.

I cut through the area behind the Cathedral. Under the tree over there a man has set up two benches and his supplies for repairing shoes. He’ll fix your shoe for about 50 cents.
Over there off to the side a bit is the bike repair shop—or rather a bunch of bikes and some rubber strips and a bicycle pump all parked under a tree. To the left is an older lady with her bananas and oranges on a colorful kanga on the ground. Then comes the car wash. There are usually 2-3 taxis being washed with dirty water from a relatively small bucket and a tan-colored cloth. More banana/orange/papaya carts. Then comes China town. 3-4 carts filled with random stuff. Small, large, plastic, useless items imported from China. Things imported to Tanzania from China are of much worse quality than the Chinese products we import into the US. maybe I’m just bitter about the toothpaste and the toys. Hmmm…there are strainers, flip flops, ugly shoes, tupperware, cell phone covers, knock-off phone chargers, panties, water heaters, blenders, cups, buckets, candy, toilet paper, water, toothpaste, toothbrushes and plastic bags. And actually most of the water is bottled by Coke. When possible I buy the Tanzanian water. Oh! and the purple or green toilet paper is definitely made in Tanzania. Along with cookies called "Glucose." Yum! Imagine trying to market those in the USA...

Crossing the street to Mckay House, (the Diocesan Headquarters) I have to make sure to look both ways, (right first!) so as not to get run over by a bike, a cart full of mattresses, or a motorcycle. Somehow these smaller vehicles always blend into the background.

I climb the steep, rickety steps along the outside wall of the building to the 3rd floor. According to the British it’s just the 2nd floor though. Either way, I walk into our torquise green office where my three male, Wonderful Tanzanian colleagues greet me warmly. Good morning! How are you! How did you sleep? Welcome! Good Morning!

So here we are. Just another day at the office.
Yay! The internet is working! Great!
Oops oops oops, There goes the power.
Oh! Yes! It’s back on!
The electricity has been pretty reliable…for the dry season anyway. What luck!

“Oh, Kelly, don’t forget to write the parish in New York and let them know that one of their Carpenter’s Kids died last week.”

Oh. yeah. Don’t forget to write that email. And let them know the parish committee will soon chose the next most vulnerable kid to get a uniform, etc...

And so work continued. Typing this and emailing about that. Researching distributors for mosquito nets. Trying to calculate how much it will cost for each child to get all the medical care they need—should we include the testing of HIV for the guardians? How much will it cost for ARV’s? Isn’t it more complicated to treat kids? Will the local government health centers in the villages have enough malaria treatments and antibiotics for all who need it?

Awww…that girl is so cute. My other colleague, Willy, the man in charge of organizing the shoes for distributions, gives her a new jumper and a shirt and shoes. The bishop’s wife just gave us a few boxes of clothes and shoes that came in on a container.

There are always people in the office. Priests coming to chat, mama lishes coming in to collect their money to make breakfasts for the kids, others coming in from the villages to write their bi-monthy email to their link parish in New York. There are always people coming and going. I smile and greet them, stand up to shake their hand, but I never really know what’s happening. They talk too fast for me most of the time.

Mmoti, our brilliant, gorgeous finance guy, (who also does a million other things for the program), asked me for 20, 000 Tsh. Sure, no problem. I think nothing of it—the line at the bank is always so long; and we try not to keep much cash around the office. I’ll just have to get my housemate Audrey to buy my lunch today.

I come back from lunch and see the little girl and her mother, (actually her aunt) in the hall again. I greet them and tell the girl in my broken Swahili that she looks nice in her new dress. She hides behind her mother’s leg.

I get to the office. Mmoti pulls me into the other room.
She is HIV positive.
What?
Who?

The little six year old girl in the new grey jumper.

He showed me the small white paper with light blue ink. For just under 3 dollars she received her HIV test. It came back:

REACTIVE.

Monday we will go together to the hospital for additional screening.

Please keep Mina* (name changed for privacy) in your prayers. She has already lost both her parents.

This weekend, be mindful of all those who have lost their parents...and all those who have lost a child...to circumstances that can be prevented or at least improved, with some help, education, and energy.

host

It’s Tuesday. Same day of the week it was this time 6 years ago. It is hard—being here and having few feel any connection to what happened that day in Manhattan. Just 5 blocks from where I spent my seven years of elementary school. Just four blocks from where my best friend lived with his parents. Flashbacks of the first bombing, in the basement of the World Trade Center come to mind as well. The school bus didn’t get us home that day till after dark. None of us understood what was happening. And of course, we still don’t. Others are able to laugh about it, not fully aware of what happened on that date: 9/11.
“What happened on November 9th anyway?”
Funny, no? haha. Anyways. Most of my readers are in the US—and I’m sure today there will be enough reflections, reminders and prayers. Just know that halfway across the world, there are some who are remembering with you.

But it seems the world has changed a lot since then.
2001 was just one year after the MGDs were written. Now, thank God, there is talk of them everywhere. Just two decades late. Or should I say over a century late.

It has been both a challenge and a blessing to teach about Colonialism, (and other reasons for underdevelopment in Africa)—in Africa. It’s hard to stand before a class and compare “More Economically Developed Countries” like the US and the UK to, well, the entirety of Sub-Saharan Africa. Tanzania is a “Less Economically Developed Country.” Yes. Quite true.

But Tanzanians have a lot to be proud of: not only peace, but also unity. Tanzania has been surrounded by warring and unstable countries for years. Only once, in 1981, in an attempt to overthrow Uganda’s racist dictator, Idi Amin, did Tanzania ever get involved in the warfare. Burundi, Rwanda, Mozambique, The Democratic Republic of Congo. All of these countries have had civil war, and are somewhat still in unrest.

And did Tanzania get involved? Well, Not exactly. In 2003 the country of just 37 million was hosting an estimated 650,000 people from nearly every nation that borders Tanzania. According to the UNHCR one out of 66 people in Tanzania are refugees. Considering the complete lack of wealth and resources in this nation, Tanzania is quite gracious to its guests.

And of course there are other things to be proud of. The gorgeous and vast national parks, the highest peak on the continent, a gem that can only be found in Northern Tanzania, a diverse, yet unified population, a country with gorgeous beaches and peace between Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Sikhs, Maasai and others.

And I am grateful to be a part of it. It is truly a blessing to be living in another country where most days, (ahem, uh, notice the most) I feel like I am just like everyone else. It is quite easy to allow myself to feel that I can fit in with the crowd. Yeah, my Swahili isn’t great, and yeah I wear sunglasses on occasion, and definitely walk too fast, and I guess the blonde hair is a bit out of place—but it isn’t till someone yells out, “Mzungu! Mambo!” that I am slammed back into reality—this is not my home. I am from somewhere else. My family, the bulk of my friends, they are somewhere else. But I am okay with it. It is worth it. Those moments of my feeling included, of feeling quite welcome and at home in this place—they are the memories I will keep. I was never good at storing those other less lovely memories for too long.
But there is a difference between not remembering, and never, never forgetting.

Pass it on

August 30th 2007

Wait wait wait, Hold on just a second!!! The Episcopal Church has missionaries? No way. That doesn’t seem very Episcopalian of us! Who are we to go out into the heathen communities and preach the Good News of Jesus to save more souls from the evils of this world?! Since when do we hold a Bible in one hand, and a banana in the other, asking, begging people to come throw themselves down before the Lord?!

Simple answer---we don’t do that. That is not the Episcopalian way. We go out into the world to show God’s love. To show the love that he has given us---so much that the only thing we know to do is to pass it on. We show it in various ways---through teaching, preaching, curing, researching, caring, translating, organizing, etc. The purpose is not for us to come out here and convert people through what we say…and really it isn’t even through what we do either. Missionaries for the Episcopal Church, are people who just feel called.

We feel called to leave what is comfortable. To leave our friends and families, go to a new place, a new world where we are able to feel God more intensely in our daily lives.
Because every day is never like I expect it to be. Each day I feel more grateful than the one before. I feel challenged to love, challenged to keep on trying, to keep on working despite daily difficulties with culture, language, loneliness, and confusion.

Surprisingly, or rather, not so surprisingly, some of the most difficult interactions I have had here in Dodoma are with other Christians—who are not so much like me. “Let’s pray for all those who have not yet found Jesus! That they may find the right path!”

And don’t get me wrong. I love Jesus. And I love how so many here are able to readily express their love of Jesus, “I'll shout it from a mountain top! Praise God! I want my world to know...” And in this culture, part of daily greetings between friends always includes some mention of God. “I am thankful to God, yes, everything is okay. May God bless you. God bless you.” There is no taboo, no fear, no holding back in regular mention of God's will, God's love, God's grace in our lives.

But never in my life would I be able to pray that “those others,” those who have found God in a different way, change to be more like me. Like us Christians. Because to me it is the same God. A God who is in us, through us, above us and behind us each and every day.

Bishop Mdimi Mhogolo of this Diocese of Central Tanganyika, holds a bible study once a month for “us missionaries.” We read a passage aloud together, then he essentially preaches on the material for an hour or so. One Wednesday evening he was talking about “Whose God?”
Unfortunately for me, being the daughter of a priest my whole life Sunday school just never seemed necessary. I somehow imagined I would just learn more about the Bible’s teachings through osmosis of growing up at GTS and being surrounded by super dorky seminarians all the time, (and of course going to church twice a week). It worked. Somehow anyway. But I could never compete with a Southern Baptist in a verse-throwing contest; which is my way of saying I don’t have a clue what passage we read at bible study that night.

But I do remember the message from Askofu Mhogolo: When you come here, to Tanzania, you come to work. You come here to do the job, to use the skills that God has given you. You are not here to change people’s minds about God or about their theology. God has been here in Africa for a very long time. God is strong and active in the lives of the people here—in town, in the villages, wherever. When you come here, do not bring your ideas of your Western God, your Western theology and expect it to go over well. I welcome you to share your thoughts, to preach your message; but just remember that you are here not to change—but to exchange…

And today I just want to give thanks to God (and 815!) for bringing me back to Tanzania. I nearly cried this morning on the way to work. Everything, every sound, every person I passed just moved me in such a classic, wonderful, cliché, ha ha, happy way. God is in the construction worker who pauses and falls to his knees when he hears the mosque's call to prayer, in the woman in her burqa and hijab, contently covered in black from head to toe in the 90 degree desert heat, in the children who see me and say, “Good Evening!” at 11am, in the three men who pile onto one bike, in the women's colorful kangas that proclaim messages in kiswahili thanking God for his many blessings, in the babies, babies babies that are everywhere, in the icon hanging from the taxi-driver's rear view mirror, and God is present in this land whose manner of getting attention is saying, “Bwana Asifiwe!” (Praise God!), to which all stop talking and join in responding, “Amen!”
Oh yes. What a wonderful place to be. To experience God in a new way, each and every day.
To God be the Glory!
(…I got that one from my dad…)

Well well wells

August 28th 2007

The 18 Americans have gone. They were here in Dodoma for just over a week. The Carpenter’s Kids Program hosted the 18 “pilgrims” from various Episcopal parishes in New York that give money to parishes here in DCT. We divided the group into three and each visited three different parishes, in villages close to Dodoma, or nearly 90 minutes drive away. It is only after being with these “tourists” that I realize how much living here has changed me. I have become so accustomed to the life here in Dodoma, and in what to expect to see and feel when going to the villages. The first Saturday visit I went with seven of the pilgrims to Ntyuka, just 20 minutes outside of Dodoma.

A large group of colorfully dressed women and children met our car at the road and with singing, dancing and cheering escorted us nearly a mile to the priest’s home. Once inside everyone made themselves comfortable on the foam cushion seats and sofas, observing all sorts of political and religious decorations on the whitewashed concrete walls: a calendar from 1998, a clock with the Virgin Mary, a crucifix, and no doubt a photo of the late Julius Nyrere. There was no electricity so the door was left open to allow the sun in. Welcome, welcome, karibu, karibu Tanzania. It wasn’t two minutes before a young woman began passing out plates, each with one chapati, (like a tortilla), a boiled egg, 2 small pieces of unidentifiable, yet precious meat, (most likely beef or goat), a piece of white bread spread with Tanzanian margarine, (no thanks!) and some salt for the egg. Store-bought white bread is a luxury here. This nicely arranged plate of food, with a presweetened cup of hot tea (chai in Swahili) served as our breakfast. Most had already eaten prior to leaving the hotel, but people tried to at least attempt their second meal of the day, just 2 hours into it.

Some were distracted by the many children outside the door. They wanted to give their food to them instead of eating it themselves. Understandable. But no longer the way I instinctually think. First off, there is no way you would have enough on your plate to share with the kids outside—and the 15 more that would come running once they saw their friends eating. Secondly, as guests in the priest’s home, in Ntyuka, and in Tanzania, we are treated with such great hospitality, such generosity and genuine kindness, that even the hungry kids outside don’t resent us for eating so much good food. It is custom to give guests the best you have.

Later on, after hearing numerous choirs and introductions of the leaders of the parish inside the concrete church building, we went on a tour of the wells in Ntyuka. The first well we saw had been dug out of a hill sideways so you could walk down a gentle slope to collect water. There were numerous frogs hopping around in the mud, and the small puddle of water was the color of sandy milk. The next well we came to had been dug straight down over 12 feet into the ground and it seemed a life hazard to attempt the steep vertical climb to gather water from a similarly small puddle, (about 1.5 feet in diameter) with creamy water at the bottom.

Later a visitor from New York was discussing the cost of connecting the church up to the electricity grid. Just 2,000 dollars? Wow, a church in Manhattan could raise that in just 2 Sundays. But my thought was: who needs electricity? Or rather, who can afford electricity? And also, how is electricity a priority when 4 months out of the year it is unreliable? What Ntyuka needs (and most other villages in the dry, dry Dodoma region), are improved wells. Wells with covers to reduce evaporation and contamination, wells with concrete to reduce erosion and leaks, wells with manual pumps perhaps. The site of the wells made my stomach hurt---just thinking of all the bacteria and the salts that lay there in the dirty puddle...And then thinking of having to hover over a hole in the ground; as bathrooms in the villages are small, deep holes surrounded by mud walls.

Anyways, moving on...

During lunch, as we guests sat there and drank crisp, clear, bottled “Africa” water, (bottled in Iringa, Tanzania), the 50 Carpenter’s Kids children took turns drinking from 2-3 cups dipped into a large yellow bucket of the same sandy colored water we had seen earlier in the wells. It is the water they have consumed their whole life, and it is normal to them. And so now, somehow, it is normal to me.

I don’t yet know how we can help with the water situation in the villages. There is never enough to go around. And access to clean water is definitely more necessary than electricity.

Mungu Ibariki Africa

"Mungu Ibariki Africa" is the first line of the Tanzanian national anthem. The whole first stanza of the song sings: God Bless Africa, and its people, its children, and let there be peace in Africa. The second stanza is the same, only sung for Tanzania instead of Africa as a whole. It has a nice tune and is a singable anthem; unlike ours in the US. There is no line like our, "laahaaaannd of the (Gasp, will she make it?) FrEEeeeeee!!!!" Yeah. Even I can sing the Tanzanian national anthem. And for those of you who know me, that is quite the accomplishment.

At CAMS we sing it two mornings a week at assembly. Going to NYC public school, I never learned the Pledge of Allegiance or participated in any other patriotic activity. The only reason I know the words to our National Anthem is from going to Yankee games in the Bronx the first half of my life. Since moving to the Turner south of the US, and as my dad will tell you, Yankee games are harder to come by. "...and the home of the Braves!"

Baseball. What a fun sport. What an American sport. Last year teaching PE at CAMS I tried to get the kids to play baseball. I thought it would be a fun challenge. But Why would you ever play a game where you only used your hands and your arms, what's wrong with football (soccer)? Even with me as the near-perfect pitcher, (ha) I could tell the kids weren't enjoying this variation from soccer nearly as much as I was. So for the rest of the month we played kickball. It was a tad more successful.

Anywhere you go in Tanzania, (and Ecuador and Honduras, and I imagine the wide majority of countries outside the USA) you will see kids playing soccer. On a field of dirt. Or sand. Few will have shoes, (or perhaps wearing one on their kicking foot) and maybe just a home-made ball of socks, plastic bags, fabric, cardboard, or some combination thereof. One of the things that surprised me most when I first arrived in Tanzania is the huge interest in English soccer. Manchester United, Arsenal, Chelsea...you have to choose one. And now Beckham has gone to America. What a sellout! Why would he join Major League Soccer? Americans don't play football.

Slow Computers

"No Hurry In Africa" is a popular catch phrase around here. And for the most part I am well adjusted to the slow pace of life in Tanzania. In restaurants, there is never any rush to bring you a menu, or take your order, or bring you your food. Or bring you your bill so you can pay--Where do you have to go anyway? So I don't mind waiting--it's easier just to laugh.

And on the buses. Yes...very slow. Or they can be too fast and you feel your life flashing before your eyes as your vehicle with 53 other people in it speeds up to pass a large petroleum truck on an uphill. Maybe going slowly is better. Yes, slow is good. (Sorry Mom, no seat belts on buses!)

And people walk slowly. But why should that bother me--it just means I can leave later to get to where I need to go, but I just get there faster. No problem, it means I'm never late for prayers at 8:00--no, wait, 8:16am.

But when it comes to the internet and computers, I want them fast. It's the one thing in this country us Wazungu, (gringos!) cannot get use to. We can eat thick grits with our hands, (ugali), dig into a cooked fish with eyeballs, never use our left hand when interacting with others, never drink water from the tap, learn that the dirt in our feet will never come off, and even realize that in Africa pedestrians NEVER have the right of way--but don't ask us to ever be okay with the fact that our internet is as slow as molasses in the wintertime.

So this is a long, drawn out way of telling you that I have yet to find a computer that will upload photos. I know my quick, young, American Episcopalian mind will soon find an awesome way of sharing some better visuals of my life here in Tanzania. But then again...there's no hurry.

First Week at Work

August 10th

My work with The Carpenter’s Kids program began this week. The Carpenter’s Kids is one of the Diocese of Central Tanganyika’s HIV programs. It is a partnership between the Diocese of New York and the Diocese of Central Tanganyika. (Tanzania was formed when Zanzibar—an archipelago off the east coast of Tanzania—joined with the mainland of Tanganyika in 1964).
The program involves linking up a parish in New York with a parish here in order to enable vulnerable children in DCT to attend primary school. Currently about 50 kids are chosen from each parish and 50 dollars a year per child buys school uniforms, school supplies and breakfast plus lunch on every school day —with a five year commitment. In Tanzania schools are free as long as a child has a uniform and the necessary supplies.
Last year, while I was teaching full time at Canon Andrea Mwaka School (CAMS), I became good friends with Miriam Plume who has been the Program Assistant for The Carpenter’s Kids since June 2006. Many Saturdays I would go to a parish outside of Dodoma town in order to participate in the distributions of uniforms and school supplies to children who have lost one or both parents to HIV or malaria. One Saturday early last spring I took five of my secondary students from CAMS out to a parish so they could see more about what The Carpenter’s Kids does. CAMS is an international school and many of the children are much better off economically than children living in villages outside of Dodoma. As is custom in Tanzania, greetings and encouraging words are always the flavor of the day. My students did a great job standing up in front of a hundred people and encouraging the kids to praise God, study hard, and listen to their teachers, (I think they threw that in for me). Anyway, they had a good time; seeing a side of their homeland that perhaps is sometimes easy for them to forget amongst television, the internet cafe and hanging out with friends.
I am still teaching three mornings a week at CAMS. When I first began teaching here last year and living in a nice apartment, fully furnished with running water I felt cheated. This was not the Real African Experience I was looking for. I wanted to live in a village, where I’d pick beans, milk cows and fetch water. But as my 10th grade kids reminded me yesterday---too often people who have never been to Africa have the wrong idea. “All you see on TV. is starving babies and poor people.” And of course they are right. Africa is not just a continent of starving children and war-torn nations. It seems that in the US that is all we hear about. Rarely is there a headline telling of a new school being built, or that literacy is rising in such and such a country, or that Tanzania is a peaceful place, welcoming to tourists who want to see wildlife or climb Mount Kilimanjaro. Then again most of my students at CAMS have had a different experience than those we are supporting through The Carpenter’s Kids.
But they are both Tanzanian. And they both represent the real Africa. At least for today.

Home Again

August 7th 2007
Greetings from Dodoma! It is great to be home. Last Sunday morning I arrived into Dar es Salaam, the large and busy city on the Indian Ocean. After getting some Tanzanian shillings from the ATM I realized it was time to put my Swahili back to use. I quickly found a taxi driver who would give me a reasonable fair to the bus station. They taxi drivers have formed a union and will no longer bargain on prices with passengers leaving the airport. During our fifteen minute ride across town I was testing myself to see how Swahili I could remember. I told him that I had just returned from America and that I enjoy his country. When I told him I live in Dodoma, he was not impressed. Dar people don’t think much of Dodoma.
I paid him 20, 000 Tsh, (just under 20 dollars) for the safe ride and pleasant chat. There was a small cafeteria at the bus station. The passion juice sounded good, but I wasn’t sure how fresh it would be in such a small place: Scandanavia Express. Most guidebooks say they are the safest and most efficient company. I think that ever since they got the good reputation they stopped spending money on buses, (so they break down all the time) and also succeeded the express part of their title. In a car the drive from Dar to Dodoma will take just under six hours. On a bus it will often take over eight.

But the views from the bus are beautiful. Once outside the city the countryside is nothing but green. Along both sides of the road you can always see people. People are everywhere. People with their goats or cows, others with huge plastic buckets full of water on their head, or bundles of sticks or bicycles loaded with hay or eggs. As the bus moves farther and farther inland, once past the beautiful halfway town of Morogoro, the vegetation gets drier and the trees become more scarce.
After a long, hot and rather tiring drive I finally arrived to the dusty, comparatively quiet town. Actually Dodoma is the official administrative capital of Tanzania. The late President Nyrere, the Father of the Nation, chose to move the capital from Dar es Salaam to Dodoma in 1973 due to its central location. He united the country in other ways by making Swahili, (along with English) the official language. He also made high school students go to school in different parts of the country so they would get to know a new area and become friends with kids in other tribes.
The current President, Kikwete, has a house here in Dodoma. The Prime Minister can be seen around occasionally. We know that Parliament is in session when large numbers of huge white SUV’s pull into town, driving along the only (6) paved roads in Dodoma to reach their various mansions or the one nice hotel in town.

All the tourist guide books on Tanzania express the same sentiment about Dodoma, “there is nothing to do and nothing to see.” And in some ways they are right. This is no town for sightseeing. There is nothing spectacular or exciting going on in Dodoma.
But for someone who lives and works here, it makes a great home. The town of just over 300, 000 makes a small enough community to get to know the people around you. It is easy to learn the common greetings, and everyone is always ready to smile, (or laugh!) at you. It is also big enough to find important grocery items like peanut butter, (American or Tanzanian), olive oil, soy sauce, pasta, plus various cheeses from Ireland or New Zealand, (which both fall entirely out of my price range!). Not that I am complaining. There are always fresh fruits and vegetables which are quite delicious.

As soon as I get a decent internet connection I will upload some photos, plus a map of Tanzania.