Comfort in Discomfort

When Trump was elected president, I can't even count how many people said to me how I lucky I was I wouldn't be around to see it through. I think it must have just been a way for people to cope with the weight of what had happened, because now it doesn't really make any sense. I'm still American and I'll be home in half a year. It's actually been quite difficult being here feeling alone this week while the people I love are back home uniting. Luckily I'm living with another American so I've had someone to commiserate with, but in this small town, if people are even familiar with Trump, they aren't expressing any opinions about him. I watched the inauguration in a hotel bar in Arusha, shouting at the TV as I downed a bottle's worth of cheap wine. The bartenders were quite amused by the passionate/drunk American girl, but when we asked how they felt about the new president, they didn't really have much to say. The United States may be the "leader of the free world" but I'm not exactly in that free world right now and what leads here is simply survival.

Watching the women's march this weekend has been remarkable and inspiring, but honestly it's also a little alienating. I feel so proud of the women (and men) I love who are marching, but it also feels impossible to relate to because the women here are living such a different reality. Will we all eat today? Will there be enough water for the cows? Will I have a job tomorrow? Will my husband? It would never occur to the women in Mto wa Mbu to organize a political protest; not only is it illegal to speak out against the government, it would just get in the way of the things they need to do to survive.

Women line the streets of Mto wa Mbu selling fruit until well past sundown

This morning I went for a run down a back road and felt embarrassed in my expensive work out gear with my phone in my hand, passing by women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads to market, teenagers with stacks of green bananas piled six feet high on the backs of their bicycles and shepherds leading their goats as tuk tuks and motorbikes dodged around them. Every day it is so clear that I am a stranger in a very strange world. 

Our new student Losotu stands outside his boma 

One of the best parts about seeing the world is exposing myself to these differences, even when they make me uncomfortable - and usually they do. I'm very lucky because as a part of the organization for which I work, I have a pretty all-access pass to some of the incredibly intimate realities of village life.

Last week I got to enter a boma, which is a Maasai home made from mud and cow dung. While it is possible to go inside these on tourist expeditions, they are typically a little more staged and there is some monetary reward for the owners of the homes. Instead, I was inside the home of a sweet Maasai mama with seven kids (who may or may not all have been hers); we were there to confirm a prospective student truly lived within our selection boundaries. It was completely dark and amazingly cool inside and the mama was shy and sweet - an extreme introvert willing to welcome us into her home so that her son might get the chance to attend our school. Her young baby screeched in fear and tucked into her arms when seeing us - I was later told it was because we were likely the first white people the baby had ever seen. The other children were amazed to touch the skin on my arms and totally enthralled by seeing themselves on my digital camera; I don't know if it was seeing their own faces or the action of swiping the touch screen - which they took turns doing gleefully - that gave them more joy.

Two days ago I visited the Maasai market, which happens every Thursday just outside of my town. All morning vendors make the trip from neighboring villages to sell their wares. Some come on foot with baskets on their heads or pushing loaded wooden carts, while others hire tuk tuks so impossibly full of bananas and gigantic bags of beans that it's a wonder they aren't tipping over. Women set up blankets in the raging sun, on which they rest carefully arranged piles of onions, mangos, lentils and dried fish. Further up the market you'll find long stretches of "shops" where you can choose from an assortment of second hand clothing, accessories shipped from China and a hodge podge of sandals, dress shoes and sneakers. Finally, after walking through the textile traders who offer large pieces of Maasai fabric, blankets and tablecloths, you make your way to the livestock market. This is where you'll find the men. 

They bring their herds of goats and cows to be auctioned off. The best ones are gone by late morning, so when we arrived it was pretty slim pickins; I can't imagine anyone successfully selling the scrawny, emaciated animals that were left, so I choose to believe that they will take them home and do their best to fatten them up, giving them at least another week to live. Last in the market is what we'll call the row of food carts. Young women cook up giant pots of soup, filled to the brim with every part of an animal you could image: intestines, feet, stomach, hair. There are also men butchering meat right there to be cooked to order over a hot flame. I was told not to take pictures in the market unless invited to do so. One of the butchers was a friend of my companion and he said it would be okay, so this is the only thing I could document. Apologies for the gruesome photo, but hey, it's kind of a gruesome business. 

This week I've watched parents bombard our executive director all over town to try to convince her their child should get into the school regardless of their merit. I've seen locals get angry with my friend Sheb for trying to help me get a reasonable price (they seem to all believe that he should be on their side just because I'm white). My first night here we passed a wreck with a man stuck in the cab of the truck; there were dozens of men on the side of the road in the dark, working together to build some sort of makeshift jaws-of-life tool to help get the man out, though he appeared to already be dead. It seems like every day I am exposed to a new kind of challenge, be it glimpses of poverty or simply cultural unknowns. 

But I've also watched countless children giggle with delight when I smile and wave or even better yet, attempt to greet them in Swahili. I've seen dadas (which means sister and is used to describe women my age), express sincere gratitude at the business we've conducted and I felt happy knowing that what seemed like a negligible amount to me was incredibly valuable to them. When our car died on the way to Arusha and I hopped out to push, a police officer who had undoubtedly just been bribing someone else, joined me and we laughed as we pushed the Land Cruiser together - he in his uniform and me in my flip flops. Best of all, I watched more than twenty children show up on their first day of school at Mungere with the biggest smiles on their faces, knowing that their futures had suddenly just become a lot brighter.

The new Form I students race to get in line for introductions on their first day of school

This is why I travel. To see the things that can be incredibly hard and different but are inevitably beautiful and real. Each day that goes by I become a little more comfortable here but I doubt Africa will ever stop surprising me. 

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The Exorcism of Home

First and foremost, it’s the heat that takes getting used to. Stepping onto a plane during one of Portland’s coldest winters and off again into the thick, stale Tanzanian heat was every bit as uncomfortable as I imagined. It’s 90 degrees every day, and while I will admit I thought it would be hotter than this, when you’re standing in a concrete school building with no breeze and the sun is directly overhead so no glimpse of a shadow can be found, it might as well be Phoenix in August. The sun is fierce here, but the last few days have brought unusual winds to cool the air; some say it’s a sign that the rains, which never came this fall, are finally on the way. The cattle are dying and the rivers are dry. When the rains finally do come, I imagine an exuberant celebration will ensue (during which I will do my best to hold back screaming Toto lyrics to the sky).

Cattle graze the dry lands of Mungere Village

I’m a five minute walk to "downtown" Mto wa Mbu, but town is slight. It’s vibrant and loud but lacks many of the basic amenities that we take for granted at home. We have an amazing house cook, so my dinners have been delicious, but lunch is a different beast. There are tiny shops that merely resemble what we would call a grocery store, so our pantry is modestly stocked with eggs, bread and condiments. If we don’t have leftovers from dinner, lunch is a wildcard. The local food offerings consist mostly of fried pastries, meat on a stick called “mishkaki” (this is also what they call 3 people crammed on a motorcycle) and omelets mixed with french fries called “chips mayai” (why we haven’t brought this home to America is beyond me. It’s fantastic!) Little bars line the streets offering beer and wine but liquor is hard to come by and if you want a cocktail on ice, you better visit a fancy hotel.

In the bigger cities, you can get amazing Indian and street food. While up the road in Manyara, our Executive Director took us to a place, for which the expression “hole in the wall” must have been named, that served one of the best dishes I’ve ever had traveling: “kiti moto” is a plate of rich tender chunks of marinated, fire-roasted pork mixed with spinach, onions, tomatoes, carrots and a perfect concoction of heat and spices; you simply eat it with your hands, scooping massive piles of slop into your mouth with your fingers. One of my favorite simple pleasures is the street handwashing called maji na kunawa. Every sidewalk eatery we’ve visited has offered this delightfully refreshing service: they bring a kettle of warm water with a bowl of soap (remember that chalky, powdered soap that dispensed over our elementary school bathroom sinks?) and in the other hand they hold a big metal bowl. You wash your hands over the bowl as they slowly pour the warm water. It’s really lovely and makes sinking your dirty paws into a pile of meat much more appealing. They’ll clean you off afterward as well.

A plate of kiti moto in Manyara, Tanzania

The other idiosyncrasies are on par with many developing places I’ve traveled: Tanzania time means don’t expect anything to happen anywhere near the projected time and be prepared to sit around waiting for hours on end; when I arrived at the airport, my luggage wasn't there and it took two days to receive it because they had to wait until they had enough bags to make the delivery trip worth it; drivers are wild, but they all somehow seem to be working perfectly in sync as they dart in and out to pass tuk tuks and motos; no matter where I go, I am a target for everyone selling trinkets I don’t want - I can’t wait until I’ve been here longer and speak more Swahili so I can properly heed this off.

Everyone is amazingly connected. I bought 10 gigs of data for my cell phone for 5 dollars and Mto wa Mbu has great service. As you venture out further into the villages, the connection gets worse, but in some ways it feels as if I’m still home because I can message and FaceTime as if I was. 

Handwashing at our local bar, Double M

Sleep has always been my biggest challenge and it’s no different here. The heat alone can be difficult to manage, but let’s set that aside for a moment and talk about the noise. Whoever said that the rooster crows at the break of dawn (Dylan, wasn't it?) must have never actually met a rooster. They crow whenever they damn feel like it. Around here, if I’m lucky, they’re on the other side of the house when they start at it at 6am. On the worst days, they’re right outside my window and it’s 3:30. At 4am, the call to prayer at the mosque in town begins. On Sundays at 6am, the church with which we share a property rings their bells for what feels like an eternity, then rings them again at 7 and again at 10. Their gospel choir is loud and sings the whole afternoon. And on the most special days: We have exorcisms! In the last few years some foolish westerners taught the Tanzanians how to rid sinners of the devil and now our neighbors occasionally hold ceremonies 20 feet from our house at any hour of the day. What does an exorcism sound like you may wonder? Pain and agony and terror, surrounded by a spirited audience and amplified by this crazy phenomenon where everything here seems to echo for miles. Perhaps it's the Great Rift Valley, which surrounds us, making sure we all know that she’s watching everything we do. Perhaps it’s the dead, hot air hanging on to every sound. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. With a combination of ear plugs, a white noise app and a pillow over my head, I’m managing to get some sleep, but it’s the kind of restless sleep that never quite feels real. 

So much of this doesn’t feel real. I’m watching online as the sky dumps more snow on my home than I've ever seen, while the plains here are drying up and people struggle to keep their farms and livestock alive. I’m seeing the stark difference between the rich and the poor and trying to find a place in between where I feel comfortable. I’m reveling in the fact that I have an avocado tree in my back yard to eat from whenever I want, while lamenting the loss of simple comforts like daily protein and ice in my drinks. I’m planting an herb garden in empty water bottles and teaching our cook to make homemade tortillas, while also finding myself with hours on hours of time to fill because the pace of life is so slow. 

A week in, I’m still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but for the first time, as I write this, I’m missing home. Six months is feeling like a really long time, but I know that when it’s all over it will have flown by. My immediate goal is to improve my Swahili so I can make friends and feel less like a tourist. Then I think it will start to feel more like home. 

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My Year of Yes

It started with a Ferris Wheel. On New Years Day 2016, I finally rode on Seattle’s Great Wheel, one I’d been eyeing for a while as I have a little ongoing love affair with riding them all over the world. It was a perfect bluebird day, brisk outside but heated in the gondola and I remarked to my then-boyfriend, as well as all my Instagram followers, that I thought it was a sign it was going to be a beautiful year.

A month later, I found myself single with a broken heart. Suddenly, the life I had imagined, based on the dreams of two of us, was gone. I’d never really had a true broken heart and for the first time I felt what it was like to have to rebuild yourself. To imagine a new life with different dreams: the dreams of one. But I didn’t know what they were. That lovely ferris wheel ride no longer seemed like an omen of good things to come but rather a cruel joke. 

I let myself suffer through the loneliness and agony for a couple of months until one day I said to myself: “I need something that can be just for me.” Though we’d often talked about sailing together, we’d never done it, and years earlier I had taken some lessons but never pursued it further. Through a series of events, for which almost all of the credit goes to my friend Katherine, I found myself on the Columbia River on a spring Thursday night, racing with one of Portland’s best crews (we’d later earn an award for winning the most races of the year). I was a novice, a stranger and the best I could do was clumsily serve as rail meat. But it turned out the skipper liked me and he said he hoped I would come back. So I did. 

That crisp April evening on the water turned into a summer and fall of racing on two crews twice a week and in one long distance overnight race to St. Helens. I spent a long weekend volunteering at the Oregon Offshore in Vancouver, B.C., where I stayed in an AirBnB with three people I hardly knew who have become some of my dearest friends. I was given the opportunity to lease a Ranger 20 with four other women sailors and I spent the summer out on my boat learning the ins and outs of being a skipper. I had one of the most important summers of my life. 

All this to say, I took a risk and it paid off. Those who know me well know this isn't easy for me. I’m calculated. I plan. Everything I do is well thought out and every angle is considered before I make any decisions. It’s exhausting worrying all the time. But when Katherine gave me a chance to sail, I took it. I didn’t think twice about heading out to the marina and meeting up with a group of strangers (she wasn’t there that night) to pursue this hobby I’d always dreamed about. 

For once, I simply said "why not?" and it followed me through the year. I took woodworking classes and metalworking jewelry classes. I lost weight and chopped off my hair. I made new friends and I made myself uncomfortable. And at the end of the year, I decided I was ready for an adventure. I began looking into taking a sailing trip down under, but instead I reached out to Red Sweater Project, a non profit that runs a school in Tanzania, to which I had previously expressed interest in volunteering. I was told they were hiring for a volunteer communications manager - a position I was well qualified to get. I applied immediately. Before I sent the application, I told myself that in the spirit of my new outlook, if they accepted me, my answer was going to be yes. I would not allow myself to consider it, to hem and haw like I always do. This was my year of yes. And so when they offered me the position a week later, my decision was already made. 

I guess that ride around the wheel was a sign after all. This last ride around the sun was a huge one. So I quit my job of three years, moved out of the house I’d lived in for four and had a goodbye bash with my best friends, as I found myself again in Seattle for New Years. Three days later I stepped off a plane in Tanzania.

I have no idea what I’m getting into. This morning the insufferable roosters woke me up far too early but now I’m enjoying a cup of coffee on the porch of my house - a lovely little abode nestled in the trees in Mto wa Mbu, pronounced Mmm-twom-boo (I think the name of the town itself is a sign. Could it be any closer to Mutombo, the term of endearment my closest friends have come to call each other?) Last night when driving from Arusha to our town, Sheb, my amazing new colleague and friend who works for the school and also as a Safari guide, pulled over quite suddenly. My immediate reaction was a tinge of fear, but then he remarked that he had spotted a family of giraffes in the trees. Suddenly, they leaped across the road in front of us. It was surreal. Just as hundreds of careless deer have done back home in my life in the Northwest, this mama giraffe, or twiga as it’s called in Swahili, was so casually taking her family from point A to point B and we were in her path. 

Today more than 100 students will show up at the Mungere Secondary School to apply for entrance as the incoming year’s newest class. Only 20-30 will be accepted. I will be there to help facilitate and watch what I’ve been assured will be chaos. It will be humbling I know. Many kids won’t get in for reasons I cannot relate to: some won't be able to read; others will be found to be pregnant; many will lie about where they live to try to meet the admission criteria. I’m trying my best to “check my privilege” because over here, it’s apparent in every part of me. But the people are kind and they seem to understand that we come from different worlds but that doesn’t make us strangers. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.  

Despite all the wonderful accomplishments I mentioned, last year was tough. Emotionally it was the hardest year of my life. But every step I took to change my life helped me work through the rejection and loss until I landed in a place where I could breathe again. That beautiful year that started on a magnificent wheel overlooking Elliot Bay turned out to be exactly what I predicted. It was my year of yes. Now I can't wait to see what 2017 will become. 

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