“It’ll Never Happen to Me”

Posted on 14 March 2013 by potholesandpilipili

So…something I haven’t talked about much is the fact that I have been sick since I arrived in Tanzania. Well almost. Technically it started a week after I arrived. But for the better part of two and a half months I have been ill, with short bursts of 3-4 days where I would get sort of better and then relapse. Before you come on a trip like this you are pumped full of so many immunizations, prescribed malaria pills, given your “just in case” bottle of Cipro, and sign up for extra international health insurance. You go through the motions and assume that, despite all of the risks, at most you’ll get a little case of Montezuma’s Revenge, pop some Pepto, and continue on. You buy the policy and roll your eyes because you are sure that you just sent money out the door, never to be seen again.

So when I first got sick of course I thought, “Bad food or water.” No biggie. Day in bed resting, drink lots of water, back in lessons tomorrow. Except that 24 hours later I was moaning in a fetal position in bed and waiting for the alien to burst from my abdomen. The school teachers made me go to the local clinic to get tested for parasites and bacteria. A few hours later, I was finally diagnosed with a bacterial infection and prescribed antibiotics and a shot of painkillers in the arse. Fun fact: when you are a super-pale girl, mosquito bites tend to stand out as bright red beacons on your skin. And when you’re living in Tanzania, you tend to get mosquito bites everywhere. You know how when you go to the doctor or nurse in the States and they say, “Nothing you can say will shock us. We’ve seen and heard it all”? Well that viewpoint hadn’t reached the particular clinic I was at. Instead, I got to feel the special type of humiliation that comes with pulling down your skirt for a shot and having the nurse burst out laughing at the bright red spots covering your tush. And then, still laughing, going to get a fellow nurse to come in and point and giggle with her. It was an experience I will long treasure.

So antibiotics done, feeling better, I was ready to take on the task of learning Swahili anew. For nearly a week I improved. And then some version of the same thing happened again. And again. And again. It culminated in a one week period during which I not only had pain from this, but also a sinus infection and malaria at the same time. I finally went to the capital to one of the better clinics in the country. I had lost ten pounds and the doctor was concerned enough about my CT scan to recommend I return to the States for diagnostic testing. We decided to try one last ditch effort and she put me on anti-inflammatories to see if we could reduce the worst of the pain. But two weeks later I had not improved as much as hoped.

So I’m heading home next week. Barring a serious diagnosis, it will only be for a month or so. Needless to say, I didn’t expect this and am not thrilled about having to step away from my studies. But I am also exhausted. I don’t feel like I’m getting any better and at the very least, I need some time to rest. So for now, it’s the best decision and I’m trying to look on the bright side…like getting to enjoy this sunset from the rooftop patio of my hostel in Dar.

Cooking Up A Storm

Posted on 10 March 2013 by potholesandpilipili

I love to cook. LOVE IT. Well, I love most things related to food, but I really love the act of actually preparing food. It’s one of those daily tasks I miss most in Tanzania. Right now, I am staying at language school where meals are provided for us, but I am hoping to do more cooking once I move to Ifakara.

However, the language school has a tradition of holding a cooking day during each course, where the students make foods from their own countries. Although we have quite a few students, it actually boils down to only a handful countries: the US, Germany, Finland, and South Korea (Actually, we have students from Croatia and India too, but they elected to just help with preparations). We decided it made sense for each to group together and decide on one dish from each place. The Tanzanians would also cook some foods that we hadn’t gotten to try yet, and then we would have a big meal together.

Kim, from South Korea, decided to make fried chicken drumsticks in a soy sauce with vegetables. The Finnish couple couldn’t join us for cooking, so they just brought some items from town. The Germans made a dish called “Farmer’s Breakfast,” which was a bacon and potato egg scramble. And the Americans, you ask? We made tacos. Nothing says traditional Stateside fare like tacos. But seriously, this was largely a concession to me, for which I am forever grateful to my fellow Americans here. See, I love Mexican food (and yes, I realize I’m talking about Mexican food in the States, don’t get all huffy about it not being “authentic”). Particularly spicy Mexican food, and particularly tacos. And I’ve lived in Colorado for the past seven years, which means I’ve had access to pretty quality Mexican food. If I could only eat one type of food for the rest of my life, it would be Mexican. If I could only eat two types of food for the rest of my life, it would be Mexican and sushi. But for what I’m sure you can imagine are obvious reasons, sushi was not a practical choice in this case. Because of this, and because I am slightly food-obsessed, I have not shut up about missing spicy Mexican food since I arrived. Of course I don’t do this in front of the ladies who cook our food- the reality is that the food they make for us is good and filling and I really appreciate their effort and tell them so. But yes, I have been guilty of moaning a bit when it’s just us students and we’re talking about things we miss from back home. Okay, maybe more than a bit. So my fellow Americans decided to make tacos for our dish (in fact, they made this decision while I was in my room sweating out the malaria so it may have been not only to shut me up, but also out of pity). I quite literally got tears in my eyes when I heard.

Of course the one sticky part of this equation is that we had no tortillas. They make a delicious thin flat bread here called chapati but it is thicker and a bit greaser. I was determined though, so I just told them to pick up some flour in town and we would figure it out. I forgot to specify corn though. I’ve lived so long in Denver that it hadn’t occurred to me someone would hear “tortillas” and assume that meant wheat. But it is the thought that counts, and I certainly wasn’t going to let that bar my enjoyment of the dish. So while the other students sat out in the open-air part of the kitchen chopping vegetables, Shantelle and I took over a table inside to get going on the tortillas. The Mamas watched us curiously and made suggestions as to water to flour ratio, but we soon had a system going. I was in heaven.

Agnes, one of our teachers, came over to help out while Shantelle started up the charcoal stove outside. After a bit of silence, and noticing the smile on my face, she asked me, “You are happy? You like this?” I assured her I did, saying, “I love to cook. It is one of my favorite things.” More silence. I could see her with a furrowed brow, occasionally shooting me sidelong glances. “I thought,” she started, “I thought Americans do not cook.” “How do you think we eat?” I asked. She told me that she thought Americans only went to restaurants, for every meal. It’s not surprising since here in Tanzania most Americans either actually DO do this, or else hire cooks. “No, many Americans cook. My family likes to cook. There are people who only go to restaurants, but most Americans cook also.” “Kweli?” (Really?) She said, surprised and as if she did not quite believe me. She laughed a bit to herself and we moved on, but it was one of those moments that really highlighted to me how the U.S. is perceived from the outside versus the reality. Since I have been here, I have heard so many statements, said confidently, from Tanzanians about the US. All Americans are rich. All Americans have big houses. All Americans own their own house. All Americans have cars. All Americans can afford whatever they want to buy or can afford to go wherever they want to go. When I have contradicted these statements, or gently pointed out the diversity that actually exists in American lifestyles, or the idea of relative wealth, I am met with surprise or argument. Particularly my position, as a student with very little disposable income, is a source of frustration. If I can afford to come all the way to Tanzania, how can I not have money to give to people? I have a computer, an i-Pod, an e-reader. Why do I refuse someone who wants $50 or $100 for their children’s school fees or $70 for their daughter’s Send-Off? Trying to explain that two were gifts and the third took me forever to save up for, that I am funded to be here and on a very strict budget, that I have to track each dollar, that I have student loans, that yes, here I am comparatively well-off, but in six months I will be back in my own country without a job or income where I am not well-off, is difficult with my limited Swahili. Or that if I gave money to every person that asked, I would quickly be in deep trouble. Of course I realize my financial situation is better than many here, I’m not trying to play it off as though it’s not. And of course, not all Tanzanians hold these views. Many have been to the US or have siblings, aunts, uncles, etc. somewhere in the States. Many are educated and knowledgeable about the US. But I hear these things often enough to struggle with how to talk about it.

But back to cooking. By this time, we were making good headway. Shantelle had almost finished up the tortillas, I was overseeing the production of the make-shift pico de gallo (this mostly consisted of watching Jerianne chop vegetables while I complained about my malaria hot flashes), the Germans had their dish sizzling in a pan, and some of the female teachers were watching Kim with an air of incredulity as he expertly showed off his knife skills (most cooking is done by women here, I’m not sure they believed how good he was). Geoffrey manned the grill to whip up some corn as a snack, while another teacher demonstrated how to use a giant mortar and pestle to crush the leafy greens piled high on the table. We cooked using charcoal stoves, so it took some time and a lot of creative logistics to get everything prepared and ready to eat at roughly the same time, but at last we were done!

Pictures were taken, and a prayer said. The dining hall was full with far more than just the usual handful of students who board at the school. In the spirit of the event, I took a tiny bit of everything, but the bulk of my plate, the place of honor, was saved for two exquisite tacos. Flavored juicy beef, a bit of avocado, Pico de gallo stacked high, all wrapped up in a home-made tortilla. And on top? A bit of Tabasco Chipotle sauce, sent from the States by my wonderful mother.

Part II: Attending a Send-Off

Posted on 8 March 2013 by potholesandpilipili

Hey! Come here. Let me tell you a secret. Something I bet you never would have suspected. Are you ready? Here it is. Malaria is…NOT…fun. I know, right? Who would have thought?!?

I really shouldn’t complain too much. I have a mild case. The pounding headache is really no worse than what I put up with during the usual migraine. Sure, I feel like every single movement requires Herculean strength and yeah, my entire body aches worse than the time I decided it would be a great idea to do a metric century road bike race despite never having ridden more than 40 miles in one go (and that only once). But really, as far as health issues run, I’ve had worse.

Except, that is, for the sweating. And the subsequent chills. And the sweating. And the chills. And the sweating. And the chills. On endless repeat all day, over and over again. I am literally just sitting at my computer, barely moving except from the middle knuckle of each finger on down. And yet, two minutes ago, I suddenly found myself drenched in sweat for absolutely no reason. In a bit, I will just as suddenly get goose bumps and start looking around for a scarf. It. Is. Miserable.

But, I had somewhere to be last night. I had delayed my whole trip to Ifakara by a week to attend the Send-Off party of Happiness, one of my teachers. Happiness is getting married soon, and the Send-Off was described to me as sort of the Tanzanian equivalent of the American bridal shower. In retrospect, I would actually describe it as more like a giant Sweet Sixteen party or Quinceñera in scope, but it is similar in that the focus is indeed on the bride. I did not want to miss this. Furthermore I couldn’t miss it as Geoffrey, another teacher, and I were on the same invitation because we paid together (attendees contribute money towards the cost of the party); I was currently in possession of that invitation which was needed to get in.

So, with plans to go for an hour or two and take a taxi home early, I got myself prettied up and headed out with Ingrid, Anne, Geoffrey, and a few other folks. When we arrived, the venue was lit up with strands of lights and music was blaring. Chairs were set up in rows facing the anterior of the room, with an aisle down the center. Up front, a dance floor took up most of the space, with three smaller rows of chairs on either side, set at a right angle to the larger rows. And finally, in the place of honor at the very front, a raised platform supporting a cloth-covered table and two chairs. The entire stage area was decorated with lights, flowers, and pink bunting.

A pink theme!

Ingrid, Anne, Abraham, and Geoffrey

As people arrived, we amused ourselves dancing to the DJ. Given that I had malaria, I was happy that dancing primarily consisted of swaying from side to side and, occasionally, forming a circular conga line. With one amazing, fantastic exception.

There I was, just minding my own business, getting my sway on, when suddenly the music segwayed into a new song. Suddenly, as if on cue. the entire dance floor broke into the Hustle, not missing a beat. Ann was slightly bemused for a few minutes- perhaps the Hustle hasn’t made it to Germany, but I reassured her, “Don’t even worry about it, just watch me. I spent the better part of two years attending Bar and Bat Mitzvahs growing up. I’ve got this.” Confidently, I merged into the crow, ready to wow with my slightly jazzed up Hustle dance moves… and then ran into two people because apparently the Tanzanian hustle is not the same as ours. Don’t get me wrong, it is close. But, three steps where we take four in one place, an extra dip thrown in another; it was just enough to make me look like an idiot. But! I am no line-dancing novice. I stepped out for one sequence and soon enough I was back in there, shaking things up.

Slowly the crowd had built and so we made our way back to our seats. A band led off, sporting hot pink ties. Moving up the aisles, they had everyone moving. What followed was far more involved than a simple bridal shower and there is far too much detail to go into here but I will give a few highlights. A large group of girls dressed alike came up the center aisle, something like the equivalent of bridesmaids, followed by the bride herself. She was accompanied by a young woman who was dressed like her in a shiny pinkish-gold dress made in the Tanzanian style who stayed by her side most of the evening as a Maid of Honor. For some time after, it was primarily about the bride, who stood up front while various family members and the MC made speeches. The bride’s family sat on one side of the dance floor, while her husband’s sat on the other, and both were in great spirits. Finally, at one point, the groom came into the back of the room. Rather than join his bride up front, however, he hid in the audience. Tanzanian Send-Off custom, I’m told, calls for the bride to “find” her groom. Happiness, slowly roamed around the room, feigning ignorance of her groom’s location. Up and down the room she went until finally, she located him two rows behind us and everyone clapped and whooped.

The happy couple!

Part I: It’s Malaria!

Posted on 7 March 2013 by potholesandpilipili

If you’ve ever traveled anywhere in the world where it is present, you will find that malaria is a common topic of conversation among tourists, ex-pats, and foreigners of all stripes.

“Are you on medication for prevention?”

“What kind?”

“Which one is that?”

“Is that daily/weekly?”

“Are you using anything homeopathic?”

“Mosquito spray too?”

“Will you take meds the whole time?”

“What side effects have you had?”

And so on. Really, next to diarrhea, it is the single most discussed health subject among ex-pats in tropical places (and nothing makes you feel closer to people you just met than swapping diarrhea stories). Each person has their own tales to share, their own tricks to pass on. You hear stories of terrible side effects from the medication and even worse infections. Even the Tanzanians themselves get in on this. If you’re an mzungu in Tanzania and you feel even slightly under the weather, they tell you, “You should be tested for malaria, just to be safe.” A cold coming on? “You should be tested for malaria.” Sneeze or feel slightly chilled? “You should be tested for malaria.” Stub your toe on a rock? “You should be tested for malaria.”

And truthfully, they’re right to be concerned. Malaria can and does kill people, not to mention cause serious illness. An incredibly sad event happened soon after I arrived in Tanzania. Two of the toddlers, twins, that my friend Shantelle had grown extremely attached to at the orphanage came down with malaria. The little boy recovered. The little girl, despite desperate attempts to get her medical care in town, did not. It was truly heart-breaking. I’ve since gotten to spend time with the little boy and am so sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet his sister.

Most Tanzanians, by the time they are adults, have built up a certain degree of tolerance for the disease after repeated infections, though they are not immune. Those of us who are not from areas where malaria is prevalent are highly at risk, though prophylactics can reduce the chances of contracting malaria. But medication itself can have pretty unpleasant and sometimes down-right scary side effects; it is also expensive. As a result, many people who are here for the long-term choose to go without and take their chances.

My very first positive malaria test.

I made the decision to take prophylactic medication at least for the first few months; Malarone to be specific. I had had bad experiences with Doxycycline and Mefloquine during past trips to Tanzania and Ecuador, so even though it was more expensive, it seemed like the right choice. Therefore, when I started feeling on Tuesday like a sinus infection was coming on, I first brushed off attempts to get me to go to the clinic for testing. But then I thought, “Better safe than sorry.” I went in on yesterday for the blood test. Four hours later, I had my diagnosis: Malaria. Awesome. Good news is after a three day course of pills I should be on my way to recovery.

So far, it hasn’t been so bad. I think I may have one of the mildest cases ever. Just a bad headache and feeling a bit dehydrated. BUT, I just woke up. Lots of hours still left in the day.

A Night Out

Posted on 2 March 2013 by potholesandpilipili

Unfortunately I don’t have much time this week so this will be short, but I wanted to give this organization a plug. There is a local group here in town, Ngoma Afrika Performing Arts Co. (www.ngomaafrika.blogspot.com), who holds monthly cultural events in town. A couple of representatives came out to the school the other day to invite us to attend and explain the mission of their organization, part of which is to teach traditional East African music and dance styles to local young people so that the knowledge is not forgotten. Once a month, they hold a community event that includes not only traditional music and dance but also Afro Jazz and fusion styles.

The venue

When we first arrived, I have to admit that my heart sank a little bit. I’ve traveled enough to have experienced my share of hokey re-enactments of “traditional” activities put on for tourists. And this venue was empty. Only the language school students were there, along with a few former students, and as the drummers set up I was afraid that was what we were in for. But in the end, we had just arrived too early. As the music got going and more people came in, the atmosphere livened up. Soon Tanzanians and wazungus alike were up dancing.

Once the event really got going and people were spilling out onto the lawn, a dance troupe came in to perform a series of traditional dances and delicious smells started to waft in from outside, where a small canteen had been set up. I wandered out among the food tables and art exhibition that had been set up, enjoying myself immensely. Most of the teachers from the language school came, and it was the first real chance we’d had to just hang out socially without textbooks looming over our heads. It was like a block party under the stars. If you’re ever in Morogoro, I recommend checking this group and their events out!

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