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.