Catching Up

As time slowly whittles my stay here down to a sad two days, I think it’s time to take a breath, sit in Backpackers’ rooftop restaurant, and try to get some of the past weeks down into the blog.

To grossly generalize, the past few weeks have been filled with conducting teacher interviews, collecting surveys, attending a debate, getting outplayed by the locals in a bi-weekly Frisbee game, eating Indian food three times a week, going out at night and engaging in overall debauchery with fellow travelers and volunteers, sitting in random schoolhouses for about an hour and having to finally ask Daniel “what the heck are we doing here?,” uploading translated Swahili videos for Khan Academy, watching all six Star Wars movies with my good friends from Dartmouth (what up guys!), riding in dalla dallas and boda bodas (the modes of transportation so nice, they named them twice!), neglecting my blog, ignoring silly travel tips like eating street food, subsequently getting a nasty bout of food poisoning (it’s a right of passage okay…), dodging al-Shabaab in Nairobi (not really, but the guys kept bursting in to my room shouting, “Look out it’s al-Shabaab! …at least they can joke about it right?), drinking an ungodly amount of coffee while I crank out my final report at The Outpost (free wi-fi!), and so much more. Oh yeah, and I went on SAFARI!

Other highlights include one Mama in Namanga offering her daughter to me in a marriage proposal. I tried to explain that she was nice and all, but I’m just no good for her. How do you say, “It’s not you, it’s me” in Swahili? I’m forever lost in translation.

I even developed a little dalla dalla betting game:

Dalla Dalla Probabilities:

• Your personal space will be invaded 1:1
• Your dalla dalla will be painted with Jesus, an irrelevant hip-hop artist, or an English footballer: 2:1
• A babu will fall asleep on you: 5:1
• Someone will put their child on your lap: 10:1
• A mama will begin breast feeding: 25:1
• You will have a comfortable, pleasant ride: 1,000,000:1

Hopefully you enjoyed the quick re-cap. Expect another post with final thoughts!

Mto wa Mbu

There’s no way else to say it. I’m WAY behind on posting. My last post covered through July 7^th. Pitiful. Time to crack the whip and kick it into high gear (which reminds me that my overuse of idioms hasn’t really helped my communication skills here in TZ). So, I’ll try to keep it brief and cover as much as possible.

On Tuesday (July 10) I hit the road once more, this time with Asante Africa scholarship coordinator/judo master/safari guide/the guy everyone seems to know in Arusha Albert Jumbe. Our task was to buy and distribute beginning of semester supplies to some of the Asante Africa scholarship students near Mto wa Mbu (literal English translation=“river of mosquitos”), as well as pay school fees. Sounded simple enough. The title “scholarship coordinator” may sound pretty innocuous, but I soon found out that Albert has one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever seen.

We started at Lowassa Secondary School with a trunk full of supplies. There were about 8 students there. These were the easy cases. These were Albert’s prides and joys, especially a young man named Lepilali. Along with getting stellar grades and being an all around great guy, after attending Asante Africa’s leadership academy, Lepilali took it upon himself to teach his fellow students and teachers everything he learned. How’s that for initiative.

Then came the hard cases. One boy and one girl, whom I won’t name, had simply not shown up to school. Any number of reasons could have accounted for this, many of which students sometimes can’t help. Albert told me once that he went to the home of a student who had not shown up at school. When he arrived, he found the entire family locked out of their house because the landlord decided he wanted six months rent in advance. Home life is an important part of the equation. So, Albert and I visited the two homes. We first visited the boy’s home, a very small, simple structure with cold stone floors and many pictures of Jesus. I didn’t get any of the impassioned Kiswahili conversation that took place between Albert, the student, his sister, and his aunt, but I could see the pain it caused Albert when he tearfully excused himself from the living room. Later he explained to me that the boy’s parents died of AIDS some years back and the sister was begging the student to help them. He was their only hope. That’s a pretty hefty cross for a 15-year-old kid to bear.

The next day when we started out, Albert had a devilish little grin on his face. He gave me a healthy slap on the back and asked, “Ready to see the real Africa?” We tore off into the bush, Albert navigating without any signposts whatsoever. “There are no mzungu out here!” Albert shouted over the rumbling engine. After twisting our way through the bush and the dust, we arrived outside a small village of mud huts. “Stop here,” Albert said. “The flies will come.”

Albert had taken me to a remote Maasai village. He had worked in this community previously with another NGO called Mission Denmark, so when Albert came around the whole village swarmed to greet him, and we entered the small community like rockstars. From the first step into the village, I noticed the flies. They coated the faces of the children, who simply tolerated the pests. The friendly people of the village brought me into their homes and danced with me a little.

We started driving to the next school, passing many black-clad young Maasai with their faces painted in white. Markedly different from the usual shocks of brilliant purple- or red-clad Maasai one sees on the dusty brown landscape, these young Maasai dressed only in an ascetic black, with dark ostrich feathers as the only ornamentation. They looked about one Rufio shy of the Lost Boys of Neverland. Albert explained to me that I came at an auspicious time. I was witnessing the circumcision ceremony, which only occurs every seven or so years. So apparently there’s safari season and there’s circumcision season. The boys aged about 12-18 in the Maasai villages are circumcised and then cast out to wander the bush for three months during the dry season. I asked Albert, “Who does the circumcisions, a mohel?” But he didn’t get it. When the young Maasai triumphantly return, the village accepts them as warriors.

Our trip concluded with a visit to Rift Valley Secondary. We arrived right in time to hear the screams and see the whips of punishment time, the sound and sight of which shocked my western sensitivities. I told the driver that you would never see this in the United States. Confused, he asked me, “Then how do you get the students to listen?”

Driving down from breathtaking Rift Valley Secondary (it’s literally on the Great Rift Valley, right near Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Crater) Albert got to havin’ that devilish little grin again. I got the feeling I was about to see a little more of the “real Africa.” We pulled up to a burst of people and color and smells and voices. It was the weekly Thursday market just outside of Mto wa Mbu. And I was the only mzungu in sight, so you know it was good. First order of business—chokula (food). We followed our noses to a small wooden shack filled with smoke, fire, blood, and guts. I saw a fire with great slabs of nyama choma stretched out over stakes surrounding the burning coals. I saw a big, sweaty Tanzanian butcher covered in blood with a great big grin. I saw huddles of Tanzanians and Maasai alike happily and greasily gnawing on lamb bones. I knew I was in the right place.

We boarded the dalla dalla homeward bound with a few very rowdy and very drunk Maasai. But about a half an hour into the drive even they quieted down as we passed a somber scene. In the middle of the road, a Maasai boy no older than ten years old lay dead. Apparently, the safari-goers inside a safari vehicle were giving candy to the Maasai children outside of the car windows. The driver didn’t see the boy in the front of the car and started off, hitting and killing him. That’s it. Purely an accident. But to my horror, I learned that the driver had taken off. Then Albert reminded me of the rule of mob law here in Tanzania. If the driver had stayed, the mob would have acted as judge, jury, and most certainly executioner. The usually noisy dalla dalla continued to Arusha in a contemplative silence.

To end on a positive note, on Friday I went on a spectacular waterfall hike with two excellent Brits I met at Backpackers. The hike left directly from our hostel. It was absolutely gorgeous. Oh, and you’ll be hard pressed to find it in any guidebooks. Eat your heart out Lonely Planet. 

Wanafunzi na Walimu

Thursday (July 5^th) I rolled out of bed (Is there a bed size smaller than a single? In Tanzania there is.) and hit the road with the indefatigable Daniel Kambewe once more. This time I set out to find the bus station on my own. I was fairly confident on the location, but I sought out directions for a little self-assurance. So I asked the one of the many friendly AK-47-wielding security guards. Predictably, the guard gave me the classic Arusha directions: “Go that way then ask someone else.” Thanks kaka.

After meeting up with Daniel, we ducked into the nearest Mama restaurant for some quick chapatti and chai, the breakfast of champions. Then I grabbed my favorite dalla dalla snack of cream biscuits and mango juice (Yup… I totally spelled dalla dalla wrong in my last post). We traveled two hours north to the town of Longido, which is about 25 km from the Kenyan border. The town consists of 5 buildings, a substantial Maasai population, and many many donkeys. Not even able to find a lone boda boda to take us to the office, Daniel and I headed to the district education office on foot.

Weaving our way through the Maasai cattle drives and unclaimed, wandering donkeys, Daniel and I made it to the office. We found the door labeled “Corruption Free Zone” and entered. Daniel gave the regular Swahili spiel about Asante Africa, the debate training, and the why there was a mzungu sitting next to him. The man explained that he was only the “acting” district education officer, but he would be happy to help. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to print the list of Longido district schools for him. So we went to the internet café in town and printed the list. When we returned only 20 minutes later, we found a different man sitting in the DEO office. So, Daniel repeated the spiel. This man happily explained that he, too, was the acting DEO. So what’s better than one acting DEO? Well, two acting DEO’s I guess. Maybe they were just trying to one-up Monduli District. Either way, we got our letter of permission, the last piece of the puzzle, and headed back to Arushatown.

(sneakily took a picture of the Maasai behind me in Longido)

On the dalla dalla back to town, I observed the many conversations occurring in the van. But this wasn’t at all out of the ordinary. Either everyone in Tanzania knows each other (doubtful in a country of 46 million), or people are just friendlier here. People actually stop to talk to each other and get offended if you don’t. That’s why every time I meet a Tanzanian they love to play the greeting game. It goes a little something like this:

1: Ay, mambo? (How are things?)

2: Poa, vipi kaka? (Cool, how are things with you brother?)

1: Safi sana, upo poa? (Very nice, you’re good?)

2: Poa kabisa boss. Habari zako? (Absolutely boss. How are you?)

1: Nzuri. Habari za kazi? (Good. How’s work?)

2: Nzuri sana. Je wewe? (Good, and you?)

1: Poa, boss, poa. Karibu sana. (Cool. Most welcome.)

2: Asante sana. (Thank you.)

It’s pretty standard to be going through the greeting motions for about 5 minutes before you talk about anything worthwhile.

As for Friday (July 6^th), there’s not too much to report. Friday was a straightforward workday. I wrapped up my analysis of the surveys that the teachers filled out before and directly after the public debate training workshops they attended in October 2011. Then I planned out a course of action for evaluation with Daniel and Albert.

On Saturday (July 7^th), I attended the Tanzanian team’s strategic meeting at the Blue Heron Inn in Arusha. While sipping delicious fruit juices, we discussed the state of Asante Africa Foundation TZ. Attending the meeting afforded me the opportunity to see the everyday struggles of a growing NGO, from building and maintaining strong relationships (because community-based NGOs are really only as strong as the relationships they build) to deciding how best to use very scarce resources. For example, with limited funding, is it better to follow a student with funding through university or fund more students but only through high school? Or is it better to spend money on training teachers who reach 50 students or more a day, keeping in mind that even more students can’t afford to attend school? It gets pretty dicey when you try to quantify the impact of education. You can’t exactly whip up a black-and-white cost-benefit analysis—there are just too many variables. There are also the cultural barriers to providing quality education to all, especially girls. Asante Africa scholarship coordinator Albert Jumbe (whom I will talk about in my next post) told me that he recently “lost” a Maasai girl scholarship recipient to marriage. Albert, who truly cares about all of Asante’s scholarship students, took it hard when the girl fell off the face of the earth, sent off to marry a much older Maasai man at the drop of a hat. Alberty explained to me that many Maasai families see daughters as dowry checks just waiting to be cashed. Then there’s the question of infrastructure. Sure, you can train a teacher and pay for a student to attend school, but what if the school is nothing more than four walls and a dirt floor and class sizes averaging 100 students. The problem of education is a can of worms, and there’s no straight solution. (Steph, sounds like a conversation we would have!)

Er… sorry to be a downer. That last paragraph kind of took a turn.

But in happier news, there are dedicated people Erna who start organizations like Asante Africa. Not only that, there are people like Daniel Kambewe and Albert Jumbe who take an interest in their communities. Okay, now this paragraph is turning a little sappy. What I’m trying to say is it’s grim situation. But that’s no reason to cry uncle and give up. I’ve met a lot of wanafunzi (students) and walimu (teachers). They’re bright and driven. They actually want to go to school. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s the hardest part of the equation.

Now it’s probably a good time to address the “What about our own country’s problems? Shouldn’t we take care of our own first?” argument. It’s an incredibly valid and valuable criticism of foreign aid work. True, the United States has many ailments; when walking in some parts of Atlanta, the homeless man is ubiquitous. But, working domestically and working abroad are not mutually exclusive endeavors. And, a littler bit goes a longer way here in Tanzania.  

That’s all for now! As always, to be continued…

“We could walk there… but we might get eaten by lion.”

As the always-on-point Downtown Kelsey Brown pointed out (yo what up Kels!), I left you guys with quite the cliffhanger by talking about being all alone in Africa and leaving only an ominous “to be continued” for about a week. So uhh, yeah, my bad. So where did I leave off? Ahh yes, monday morning…

Monday (July 2nd) morning started bright and early with a jolt from my polyphonic ringtone circa 2002 (A Tanzanian cellphone for about $18 USD? No complaints here…). I answered the call from Daniel, clearing my throat and hopelessly trying to make my voice sound like I hadn’t just woken up. “Hello Tayla!” (Everyone in Tanzania calls me “Taylor” instead of my apple-pie-and-baseball American name, “Tyler”) Daniel said from the other line in a voice way too chipper for 7:00 am. Was this the same guy that was 2 hours and 45 minutes late to the meeting yesterday? I guess Africa time goes both ways.

I emerged from Backpackers twenty minutes later after a quick splash of water on my face and malaria pill ingestion. Beaming from the doorway, Daniel extended his hand for one of those uncomfortably long handshakes that Tanzanian men are fond of. Long, drawn out handshakes are emblematic of how warm and friendly Tanzanians are. Only after about half a kilometer down the road did Daniel finally release his friendly grip, thus relieving me from my discomfort of two men holding hands due to my repressed American upbringing. I’m such a prude.

We met up with Albert at an internet café to work on the guys’ July financial forecast. I helped them a bit with Microsoft Excel and Dropbox, and at the end of the work Albert happily declared, “Everyday is like college when I work with Asante.”

After whipping up a proper appetite, Albert, Daniel, and I set out to explore the delicious, though somewhat limited, world of Tanzanian cuisine. First lesson: ugali and nyama choma. After the ritual hand washing, we feasted like crazed Maasai on fatty, salted goat and ugali, a staple Tanzanian food that can only be described as solid porridge. Two weeks and 15 pounds later I can safely say that my indoctrination is complete. In fact, a few days ago, a Tanzanian taxi driver was so ecstatic to see me, a mzungu, eating ugali (instead of chips) that he ran over to my table and shook my greasy hand, declaring to the entire restaurant that I was a “wonderful person.” 

“Eat more food, mzungu!”

Now that you can picture that adorable face above (no not me silly!), let me tell you a little bit about working with Daniel Kambewe. To put it simply, he’s one of the sweetest (and I don’t use that word lightly) men I have ever met. Daniel left seminary about five years ago and assumed his post as Program Director of Asante Africa Tanzania about one year ago. Soft-spoken and always worrying about me in the kindest way possible, Danny really would have made a great priest. But, I’m glad he chose the path of Asante Africa.

On Tuesday July 3rd, Daniel and I hit the road to ask the bigwig (or big potatoes, as Daniel calls them) Monduli and Longido District Education Officers (DEOs) to give us their blessing on our evaluation project. Calling an audible on our original plan, we first traveled to Monduli district. Accustomed to the incessant car horns and shilling coin chinking and gunshot boda boda (motorcycle) backfires of Arusha, I was caught off guard by the silence of small-town Monduli. But really it was so nice to get out of the city. Here’s a picture from the dolla dolla window on the ride over:

The Monduli district meeting went smoothly enough. Until I almost compromised the entire project by vomiting on the DEO from dehydration. But I kept it down and excused myself to get some air. Crisis averted, we left the Monduli office with a very official looking letter of endorsement for our project. Enjoying the nice weather and not having vomitted, I asked Daniel if he wouldn’t like to walk back to town. “We could walk there, but we might get eaten by lion,” he replied very matter-of-factly, without a trace of humor in his voice. Danny is not one to mince words.

So, taking public transportation the whole way, we headed back to Arushatown by way of Monduli.

Wednesday (July 4th) I woke up to the familiar Backpackers breakfast of thin pancakes (pancakey) and beans, as I watched in horror as a Backpackers staff member shoved a knife into a plugged-in toaster to fish out a lost piece of toast. After breakfast I traveled to the headquarters of another Asante Africa project, Khan Academy translation. A team of translators were busy translating educational videos into Kiswahili when I entered. For the day I offered my services in quality-checking and uploading. That night, saddened by the lack of fireworks and fanfare during my July 4th so far, I set out to round up a few Americans to celebrate the 4th right. I’ll spare you the details, but I’ll just say we were more than successful, ending the night with a patriotic rendition of Brian Adams’ “Summer of ‘69” at Empire Sports Bar karaoke night. God I love karaoke in foreign countries. 

That’s all for now. As always, many more posts to come… to be continued…

Another Day, Another Dolla Dolla

So I spent forever agonizing over which dolla dolla (vans used to get around town on the cheap) pun I should use for the title of the post. I also considered “CREAM get the money, dolla dolla vans y’all” and “Death by Dolla Dolla” (but I think that would give my mother an aneurysm). Hopefully I made the right choice.

After being here for a good two weeks now, I have a lot to cover. So much happens in the passing of a day—let alone the passing of two weeks. This blog post has loomed over my head long enough. It’s high time I crack the whip and put my fingers to the fire, or keyboard rather.  Because I’m trying to write a blog that I myself would want to read, I will break up the past week and a half-ish into digestible, delicious little morsels of my Tanzanian trials and tribulations. You might laugh, you might cry, or you might decide that your internet surfing time is better spent looking at embarrassing celebrity pictures on the Huffington Post. Hopefully you enjoy reading my story, because I enjoy sharing it.

On Sunday (7/1) I had the first meeting with Asante’s TZ team (AAF also has projects in Kenya as well as fundraising and operations in the US) which consists chiefly of Daniel Kambewe and Albert Jumbe, two of the sweetest guys you’ll ever meet. The meeting started 2 hours and 45 minutes late. Now before you get all judge-y and sanctimonious, let me tell you a little bit about a phenomenon everyone here has affectionately dubbed “Africa time.” Everything just takes longer here. Restaurants generally take about an hour and a half to serve the food.  Poor infrastructure (trouble with transportation, power, internet, etc.) plays a big part. But mostly, people just seem to take their time. Because really, what’s the rush? “Pole, pole” (slowly, slowly) is the mantra to which everyone subscribes.

During the meeting, Daniel, Albert, and I planned out our week. Although I’ve had a hand in a few other projects (which I will explain a little later), my main project involves evaluating an Asante Africa teacher training workshop, which took place in October/November 2011. Along with a wonderful CMC alum named Takako Mino, Asante trained both primary and secondary school teachers from all over Monduli and Longido school districts in an English language public debate format. With the training, Asante Africa sought to improve students’ English speaking and writing skills, engage large numbers of students at once, and enrich teachers’ abilities in the classroom. Asante has tasked me with figuring out if they accomplished that and brainstorming ways to improve it for the future. To conduct this evaluation research, I need to interview teachers as well as conduct surveys. Because of these interactions, I would need to first go to the big wigs (or the “big potatoes” as Daniel calls them), the district education officers, in order to get the green light to proceed with my project. So the plan – Monday (7/2) I would help the guys with some of the financial forecasting and Microsoft excel work. Tuesday (7/3) Daniel and I would travel to Longido district education office to get the blessing. Wednesday (7/4) Albert and I would visit the Khan Academy translation project (which I will talk about later) to lend a helping hand. Thursday (7/5) Daniel and I would travel to Monduli district education office. Friday (7/6) me and the guys would regroup and devise our next plan of attack. Aaaaand, break!

After the meeting I was left to my own devices once again. Alone. So I developed a new method of meeting travelers (mostly out of necessity): ask to borrow things. No internet modem? Ask the friendly Dutch girl smoking a cigarette and soaking up the afternoon sun. No American power adapter? Ask the clearly American man who wears San Francisco Giants gear every day. Who knows, you might even make some new friends to go and watch the Eurocup final with. Although it’s old news now, I watched the Spaniards manhandle the Italians in the final at a bar called Mango Tree. Despite Spanish goal after Spanish goal, the indefatigable Mango Tree patrons shouted “Maaaaaario!!!” for the duration of the game in support of the crazed Mario Balotelli. I headed back to my humble accomodations at Backpackers thinking maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to get the hang of this whole volunteering alone in Africa thing… (to be continued)