Journaling by bulleted list... (Now with pics!)

Being in a new culture is exhausting.  Living in a picture out of National Geographic?  Unbelievable.  The last few days of my life have been so full of amazing sights, people, sounds, and - unfortunately - smells, I am a bit overwhelmed in attempting to document it all.  In fact, I've had so little time to even sit down, I have literally resorted to keeping a bulleted list in my journal.  A sampling:

• Buckets - the ultimate multitasker
• "Why hapana, mzungu?"
• My new BFF, Kennedy (and his wife, and her friends, and her bucket)
• Robbing a bank
• "Mambo, mzungu!  Poa!"
• Chickens, chickens everywhere
• A brand new fire truck - but no driver

Allow me to elaborate on at least a few...  Before I do, please know that what I am experiencing is so far beyond what my suddenly grossly inadequate vocabulary could ever do.  Every waking (and some sleeping, thanks to my anti-malarial medication) moment is full of wonder and discovery and translation...

Saturday, July 10, 2010 - Dar es Salaam - Holiday Inn
Shortly after submitting my last post, I checked out of my hotel and waited in the lobby for my new friend Kennedy to pick me up as he had promised the night before.  Knowing that most Tanzanians view time and schedules as loose guidelines, I went down a few minutes before his promised arrival of 2:00pm, fully expecting him to arrive around 2:15.  Surprisingly, he rolled up in his Suzuki SUV right at two, got me loaded, and hurtled us into the busy Dar traffic.

"My wife is finishing her term at the finance college, so I must stop to pick up her things.  She boards there."

Now, I had heard that taxi drivers in Tanzania continue on with daily errands and responsibilities while driving fares.  He drove through the streets, all the while, talking on his phone (the silent button doesn't seem to exist on cell phones here...and they all have a Jason Derulo or Shakira song as their ringtones).  I watched crowded dala dalas and bujajis (essentially the same thing as a tuk tuk in Asia) jockey for position in traffic, along with cars, large wooden carts pulled by men full of everything from bottled water to mattresses, people carrying all manner of goods (often contained in ten gallon brightly-colored buckets) on their heads, and bicycles follow a traffic pattern that they seemed to understand, but made no sense to me.

After arriving at the college and waiting for about twenty minutes, Kennedy's wife and some friends appeared, carrying her things.  I met the friends as Kennedy loaded suitcases and the obligatory bright yellow bucket. Seriously, everyone has one of these things - they're used to carry water, fruit, trash, everything (and usually balanced on their head).  And when you're tired, just turn it over and sit on it.  Brilliant.  I'm thinking that Portland could use a bucket store.  After another ten minute conversation and many goodbyes, Kennedy, the wife, a friend and I were off to the airport.  Slowly.

 Traffic in Dar is atrocious at best.  There are few stop lights, no right-of-way laws, and the horn seems to be the one thing that everyone agrees upon:  use it early and often.  When one comes upon the queue and stops, touts - young men selling all sorts of goods - walk down the center of the cars, making a smooching and whistling noise.  They come to car windows selling almost anything that you can possibly imagine:  Armour All, cologne, socks, fruit, nuts, DVDs, knives, meat cleavers, tires, pillows, a rug with the Taj Mahal on it, badminton racquets, soccer balls, shoes, etc.  As one gentleman approached my open window and attempted to sell me a meat cleaver, air fresheners, or a Kenny Rogers (who says his career's over?) CD, I politely said, "Hapana, asante".  (No thank you)

"Why hapana, mzungu?"  (Why no, white person?)

After finally arriving at the airport, and bidding Kennedy's wife and her friend baadaye, I followed him as he weaved his way through the crowd and up the stairs, where I found one of the CCS drivers and two other volunteers.  Kennedy refused to accept any money for my ride to the airport, a rarity in any nation. Knowing that I'd repay his generosity by using him to arrange our safaris, as he does with most CCS groups, I asked for his card.

"Hakuna matata.  I'll be around."  And he disappeared.

After the other volunteers arrived from Dubai, exchanging $300 to 179,000 Tanzanian shillings (I felt like I'd robbed a bank, the stack was so big), we all piled in a bus and ventured out again into the Dar traffic.  So, there we were, fifteen exhausted travelers in a bus with the stereo pumped...to Justin Bieber as touts attempted to sell us a football or an inflatable mattress.  Priceless.

The 50 mile drive from Dar to Bagamoyo took close to three hours.  Markets, dala dala stops, speed bumps, and lots of honking meant that our max speed was about 30 mph.  The sun set.  Quiet.  We passed villages and saw groups of people cooking over a fire, or playing billiards on a table under a single flourescent bulb where electric was available.  After the chaos of Dar, I found Africa.

In the pitch black night, the bus pulled up to the Home Base in Baga.  We were welcomed with dinner and shown to our sleeping quarters.  Most of us are sleeping in the "summer" house a short walk away from the main house.  As we walked toward the summer house in the black night, children stepped away from their fires to yell, "Mambo, mzungu!" (Hey, white person!)  to which we replied, "Poa!" (cool).

Monday, July 12, 2010 - Bagamoyo, Tanzania

Perhaps I've seen too many movies, but my first night sleeping under a mosquito net was not nearly as romantic as I'd imagined.  It inhibits precious air flow, smells rather musty, and doubles as a surprise attacker when one gets up to use the restroom in the middle of the night.  After staying up a way too late, chatting with fellow volunteers and taking the first of many cold showers, my mind raced and sleep was a bit of a rarity.  Alas, I woke up with my roommate, Maddy from Seattle (she's already been here three weeks and is teaching in the same school where I'll be - I start tomorrow).  We took a short walk before breakfast so I could see a bit of the town.  As we left the gate of the summer house, we were greeted by three children, running out into the street toward us.  They grabbed our hands and shouted, "Mambo!"  The girl that grabbed my hand bounced in her red dress and bare feet, waving as we walked away before her mother, sitting in a doorway washing clothes in a (you guessed it) bucket, called her back.  I fell in love instantly.

Baga is not a tourist destination, even with its rich history.  CCS volunteers are pretty much the only wazungu (foreigners) here.  Locals call our houses, behind their gates and walls the "white people prison"!  We all got a good laugh today when Zik, one of our directors handed our contact cards for us that say, "If you take a pijaji (tuk tuk type taxi), ask them to take you to the 'mjengo nyumba ya wazungu' (house of white people)."

After breakfast, Bagamoyo boot camp began.  Program orientation was followed by a field trip around town.  We visited the Kaole ruins, the remains of the first settlement by Arab traders in the 13th century.  It is because of these traders that the coastal region of Tanzania is predominately Muslim today.  We walked down to the former port, now overgrown with mangroves that stretch one kilometer out into the Indian Ocean, and watched monkeys playing near the water.

Our next stop was a sad one.  Bagamoyo was the coastal stop for trade caravans for hundreds of years.  Ivory, copre, sugar, and slaves - approximately 800,000 of them - were carried or marched by traders inland to Bagamoyo, where they were put on dhows and taken to the Arab trading post island of Zanzibar, before being shipped to the Middle and Far East or colonized Africa.  The Caravan Serai was built by an Arab trader as a resting place for slave traders and slaves, the idea being to restore health to the slaves after their long march before being sent to Zanzibar's slave markets, not for the well-being of the slaves, but to fetch a higher price.  Today, it is a museum to educate people about this horrific time.

Arab traders stole women, men and children (or they were sold by kidnappers), bribed tribal leaders for passage of their caravans, and shot and killed any ill or lame captives before bringing them to Baga.  Men were castrated, which is why, even today, there are no descendants of slaves in the Middle or Far East. As slaves were loaded onto sailing ships called dhows and taken from the shores of mainland Africa forever, many cried, "Bwaga moyo!"  Throw down your heart.  There is not hope.  This is how Bagamoyo got its name.  In 1922, only 88 years ago, slavery was declared illegal in Tanzania.  A messenger was sent through the town, banging a drum to spread the news. 

We were emotionally and physically exhausted, but stopped at another museum near the first Christian church built in East Africa.  After one last stop at a market in Stone Town, the oldest area of Baga (and a place so deserted that the most activity we saw were two of the thousands of resident roosters, having it out over a lady chicken), we stumbled back to the main house for dinner.

Not having slept much the night before, I was exhausted at best.  However, how many chances does one get to watch the World Cup final while drinking a Kilimanjaro beer or a Safari Lager under a palm tree?  The stars were incredible.  The scent of fires and the quiet of a town unspoiled by highways, enjoying a few beers with new friends, while wondering about a home a world away, I was finally able to exhale and think to myself, "Words really are overrated."

Walking home, we passed a small alleyway.  I saw the unmistakable blue glow of a tiny television in a tiny hut.  It reflected off the faces of about thirty locals as they sat, cross-legged on the floor, transfixed.  Like something out of a movie.

I looked up at the stars.  A tiny voice from somewhere...

"Mambo, mzungu!"
"Poa."

Waking up in Dar

I'm not sure if it's the Malarone or my exhaustion, but I slept so hard, I wasn't sure where I was when I involuntarily woke up.  A pounding on the door, followed by a rather incoherent me opening it to maintenance (apparently there was an issue with the air-con), woke me after about seven hours of sleep.  I opened the curtains to see a bustling Dar.  The Christian church across the street was broadcasting some sort of sermon over the loudspeaker (well, at least that's what I gathered as the occasional words "God", "Jesus" and "moyo" - which means "heart" were emphasized amongst the swahili I couldn't comprehend).  I'm that the early morning muslim call to prayer didn't wake me, though I'm sure that it will at some point during my trip.

Not much new to report.  I'm fed.  I'm still exhausted.  Here are a few pics!  Not sure when I'll be able to post again, as I'll be leaving the big city in a few hours.  Kwa heri...

Whew...

After what was seriously the longest day of my life, I've made it!  Approximately 28 hours in the air (not including layovers) and a rather sketchy cab ride later, I'm resting comfortably at the Dar es Salaam Holiday Inn.  I'm exhausted, but my body still thinks that it's two in the afternoon, so sleep may be questionable for a little bit.

The flight from Amsterdam south was incredible.  Well, as incredible as a window seat in coach for ten hours can be.  The entire plane seemed to be full of volunteers or people prepping to climb Kilimanjaro.  I sat next to a woman who is here to evaluate programs for the Peace Corps (she works at PC headquarters in DC). I really enjoyed chatting with her about issues that the Peace Corps and other NGOs face in dealing with third world education.  We also chatted with Robert, a guy from NC preparing to climb Kili.  Aside from the conversation and the naps, the view outside was amazing.  As we left Amsterdam, the green fields and red-roofed villages of Europe were clearly visible due to the clear sky.  I saw the Alps and the tiny villages tucked between the peaks, the Italian coast along the Adriatic Sea, and finally the Mediterranean Sea.  What was most impressive, however, was when the Mediterranean gave way to the Libyan coast, which then gave way to the Sahara.  That is one big desert.  It took us twice as long to fly over the Sahara as it did to fly over Europe.

As we approached our first stop in Kilimanjaro, it struck me how dark it was.  Electricity is a luxury, so even the rather large town of Arusha was little more than a few specks here and there of blue fluorescent light.  I'm sure that the stars above Bagamoyo will be breathtaking as a result of this, though I doubt I'll want to walk anywhere at night; I'll probably run into something!

After landing in Dar and waiting just long enough for my bag to ensure that my heart rate considered going into panic mode, I stepped out into the humid Tanzanian night to see a crowd of eager faces, waiting for family, friends, or a fare.  I scanned, looking for my Holiday Inn airport shuttle driver.  He was nowhere in sight.  And, well...since I don't exactly blend well, I was a bit of a sitting duck for drivers asking where I wanted to go.  After dodging a few drivers and stepping aside for a bit to see if he'd show, a young man named Kennedy said hello.  Did I mention how friendly Tanzanians are?  I was welcomed to the country by no fewer than ten people in the first ten minutes.  Anyway, Kennedy and I began to chat and I mentioned that I'd be heading to Bagamoyo to volunteer tomorrow.

"You must be with CCS."
"Yes!  How did you know that?"
"Ah, Ahmberrrr, I am a safari operator.  I take CCS volunteers on safari."
"Well, fantastic.  I'm sure we'll meet again."

Kennedy told me that he had seen the Holiday Inn driver leave with passengers about ten minutes earlier, but that he could not only ensure that he could find me a safe driver to get me to the hotel tonight, but also that he would be back tomorrow to take me back to the airport, where I'll be meeting with CCS.

I guess when you're a single female in a new country, there's a level of "to hell with it" trust.  So...I handed the guy my bag and followed him toward a parking lot.  He introduced me to Noel, a kid who looked no older than about sixteen, said something to him in swahili, put me in the front seat next to Noel and off we went.  He was a good kid, even though he drove like a bat out of hell.  At one point, he rolled through a red light.  When I asked about traffic regulations here, he said, "I usually stop at red.  Back there, you stop, someone might come to your window.  Not safe, so I roll through."  Gotcha Noel.  Good work.

I've not stayed at too many Holiday Inns in the US, but I've never been greeted with a bellhop, fresh fruit juice, and a cool wet washcloth at one.  So, I'm safe but exhausted.  Shower plus bed...

Go time...

You know how, as a child, there's that one thing, that one ride at the park, the high dive at the pool, that one seemingly Herculean task to which you aspire? Once that fear has been faced, that dragon slayed, you have "arrived".  Inevitably, there comes the moment when you finally decide to do it; to ride the Anaconda (yes, it was really called that) at King's Dominion amusement park (a shout out to my NoVa peeps); to hurtle yourself from the high dive at the community pool.  Once that decision has been made, (and this part is vital) and made public, all things point to the execution of said task.  As your wet feet tremble and claw their way up the steps to the long, grainy diving board, or the roller coaster chugga-chugga-chuggas its way up that first hill, you turn around to see if just maybe there might be a way out if you chicken out at the last minute.

There's no turning back.  It's go time.

Yeah, I'm there.

Chugga...chugga....chugga

By the way, I got my placement.  I'll be teaching at Mwsama Primary School.  It's a locally-run private school that teaches mainly street children, orphans, and those from less-affluent (and that's saying a lot considering the average resident of Baga lives on one dollar per day) families.  Teachers at this school make $37 per month.  I'm excited to get there and get started!

On planning your own party, sticky notes, and lists

I'm a list-maker.  My desks at home and work are littered with sticky notes listing to-do's, grocery lists, cool songs to add to my iPod, budgets, and interesting quotes or notes to myself.  Making lists calms me.  I get a slight thrill with the tug of a clean sticky note off of the pad or every time I cross off a done to-do.  With the all-powerful iPhone, I've moved my calendar into the electronic age, but I'm hanging on hard and fast to my sticky notes.  I'm a planner.

As such, I want to ensure that I see and spend some fun time with my Portland friends before I leave.  A week ago, I sent out an email to a few close friends regarding getting together tonight.  I had already planned on meeting my good friend Anne (who rarely leaves home) for a drink last night.  When I got to the restaurant, I found a table outside and texted her to let her know where I was, as I thought I was the first one there only to receive a reply that she had a table inside.  So, after giving a quick greeting hug and surveying the room, something was unusual...

Hey, there's Tom!  What a coincidence!  Wait, that's Mike...and Jennie.  She said she was busy tonight.  What the???  Oh crap, here come the tears... 


So, though I attempted to plan my own party (which, by the way, is still happening tonight), my lists and neurotic need to plan EVERYTHING was for naught.  My friends beat me to it.

Add to my to-do list:  Thank you.

Counting down

One more year down.  Tomorrow is the much-anticipated last day of school.  That's eleven years under my belt, or roughly 1,980 school days, 900 students, and countless hours, laughs, and essays.

My father once told me, "Always leave something better than you found it."  Be it a borrowed lawnmower, a campsite, or a kid, leave it better - somehow - than when it came to you.  On the last day of school for eleven years now, I've sat at the front of the classroom and attempted to impart this piece of advice on students who, most of the time, didn't hear a word I said.

I hope that maybe a few did.  And conversely, maybe a few were, in fact left "better" after being in my class.  I know that most of them, as well as most of my colleagues, have left me a little better.  I always count down the hours until that last day...when those challenging kids that drove me crazy all year will walk out the door for the last time.  Then, when it finally rolls around and the staff lines up on the sidewalk to wave off the buses for summer, horns-a-blaring, I'm the one a little choked up.  Did I leave that kid any better?  Could I have done more?  Maybe.  Luckily, I'll have another chance, with another kid, during another year that I'll surely count down to the end.

Until then, there are kids yet un-met in a little town around the world.  20 days.

100% Raised!!

A few months ago, when I first decided to begin this journey, I was a bit daunted by the amount of money that I would need to fundraise in order to pay for my program fee.  After all, $3763 isn't exactly pocket change!  As the first few donations came in, I was ecstatic.  As even more came in, I often found myself in disbelief and feeling somewhat "unworthy".  Still, after each donation, each demonstration of complete and utter support from family and friends, I became a bit more confident in what it is that I'm about to do.

As my trip is merely 45 days away, and most of the big "to do's" have been checked off, it's becoming more and more real...and more and more frightening.  But today, after one final, generous, and very unexpected donation came in, I found myself feeling more confident than ever.  I've decided that I'll print out a list of all of my supporters and carry it with me to Tanzania so that, during the tough times, I'll be reminded of all of you who believe in what it is that I'm doing.

I'm absolutely thrilled to look on my fundraising page and see the "100% Raised" that is posted under my name.  Adequate thanks is impossible, but please continue to accept the gratitude I am able to show.