The first couple of weeks I got here moved so slowly I didn't know how I would make it through; I started imagining leaving before I'd even settled in. I was missing home, my friends, love. It was so unfamiliar. In those first weeks I downloaded a countdown app that showed me how many days until I would be home and I looked at it frequently. Watching the number tick down each day gave me comfort, even though it seemed endless.
Before long, I stopped looking at that countdown and started finding things to enjoy here. Weeks went by quickly and then suddenly it had been months. I had a pretty rough patch in the middle where I got quite sick and lonely and everything froze but I came out of it. Now, the number of days has become so small, I've started looking at the app again. 12 days until I leave Mto wa Mbu for Zanzibar. 19 until I'll be home. Probably I should be reflecting about what I learned about myself and the world. That will come. For now, I just want to capture some anecdotes about my life here so that I can hang on to it after it's gone.
I could easily write a whole post about the hard stuff: that I'm currently typing this while listening to a family of rats running around in my kitchen; that I have fleas in my bed that won't quit; that a day doesn't go by during which I don't get frustrated with someone for lying to me about something pointless; how the church property I live on spends at least three hours every day blasting trumpets and tone deaf choir singers; that you must wait and wait and wait for anything to happen; that I cannot walk down the street without being chased by children screaming at me and asking for candy and money or sometimes reaching out to touch or slap my skin. These things are difficult and I won't miss them.
But as I begin facing my departure, I'm catching myself thinking about the good times and about the often charming absurdity of it all. Like the time we put 26 people in the school Land Cruiser and then I watched us pile out one at a time like from a clown car. Or when the next door neighbor's chicken came into my house and laid an egg on the couch. Or how, because the sun rises around six in the morning year round, when Tanzanians look at a clock pointing at 12, they call it six because that's when the day begins—with the sun. So by this logic, two is eight and 11 is five and nothing ever makes any sense. And how not once but three different times, we splurged and went to a fancy grocery store in the big city, only to come home to 48 hour power outages that put our fridge out of commission—and our coveted cheese and meat products in the trash.
Yet, among all the ludicrousness, there are so many moments of pure joy; moments that are so raw and unexpected, I sometimes catch myself smiling at nobody. Like the fact that despite being a culture that generally fears homosexuality, the men here are more affectionate than I've ever seen men at home. On campus and street corners and even in bars, some of my favorite moments are glimpses of boys and men walking sweetly hand in hand. I wish I could see this back home; I wish everyone was so comfortable showing friendship this way.
Or how instead of seeping road rage and frustration, the drivers work together to help each other. If you pay attention, you'll see drivers with their hands out their windows flashing signals to warn oncoming vehicles about what lies ahead. If a vehicle is stopped somewhere up the road, you'll know it because there will be shrubs littering the pavement on the approach. And if you're on a dangerous turn, the car in front of you will help you pass by using its blinkers to tell you when it's safe to go. But watch out if you're a pedestrian because you come last. Cars do not stop for you and in fact, at busy intersections, they will push right through you to get you out of the way.
The local drink of choice is Konyagi, a Tanzania gin, of which you can buy a whole bottle for two to five dollars, depending on the size. When the bartender brings you the bottle, he pops the bottom (like we used to do with Snapples) and then lays it on its side on the table. After pouring from it, you must always place it back on its side. You absolutely must! I still don't really understand why, though I've heard whispers about it keeping you from getting too drunk and also that "Tanzanians are tired from holding up all of Africa" or something else totally hyperbolic. What I do know is the hangover is drowning but that's never reason enough to stop drinking it.
One of the most endearing Tanzanian idiosyncrasies is how they remove the letter "y" from the end of most words, resulting in adorable adjectives like "craze" and "fance" and everyone—including all the students—calling me "Kels" and making me feel like we're all best friends. While at the same time, they add the letter "y" to a million other words that don't need them, like "andy" and "firsty" and "Microsofty Wordy."
And how along highways there are signs that warn of "Blind People" in places where there are absolutely no blind people to be found. That hair salons are called saloons. That there are open air restaurant bazaars where you sit at a table and 20 people will run over and stack piles and piles of menus in front of you, hoping you'll choose their establishment. And how semi truck and tuk tuk drivers take so much pride in their vehicles that they trick them out with party lights and add hilarious names to the windshields. Whenever we go on road trips, I always take note of the best decor, including my very favorite: a Dala-Dala (a local van transport) called "Chocolate City." Second place goes to a tuk tuk named "Lover Boy."
Other winners are:
It's been difficult to make close friends here because my life experience is so different than the locals' and while I have formed friendships, there will always be an inescapable barrier to how close we can become. That being said, we've had a lot of great times together and over the months I've noted some of my favorite one-liners and expressions, like when they tell you not to worry they say "worry out." Or how they respond "why not?" when asked to do something or they ask "is it?" or "isn't it?" when they mean "do you understand?"
Once, when a powerful man was arrested, my friend Sheb said "the flood came and got him." He also told me that when it rains "a lion is giving birth" and when talking about death he said "nobody wants to sleep forever." He once told me that "friendship is expensive" (but mostly because he wanted something from me) and at a park entrance, when the guard tried to charge him extra for our car, he refused, exclaiming that "our car is not going to enjoy anything." He also once said, "you are better than potatoes" when he offered to drop his cooking to go help our friend who needed a ride. His favorite Americanisms I've taught him are "Do the Dew," calling crazy people "kuku" (which means chicken in Swahili) and the word "dope." Now, he thinks everything good is dope. The bad stuff, well that's "not dope" of course.
When discussing the effect climate change is having on their country, my friend Edward once said to me, "we don't have civil war like Sudan but we still starve." It was powerful and I'll never forget it; I've had a heart-shattering, up-close look at the realities of global warming—more on that in the previously noted "what did Kelsey learn" post to come. Though it really kept me from needing to learn much Swahili, I'm grateful the locals I know well speak such great English because I've so enjoyed listening to their perspectives on the world and politics. I think I've learned as much from them about America—what we have and what we lack—as I've learned about Tanzania. I've seen our students put Western kids to shame and at the same time, in a culture that adores our country, I've often felt ashamed to be American. I've watched kids' eyes open wide a hundred times at things I've said and places we've seen together. I've caught them smiling at me across the classroom in a way that make me sure they'll always remember me.
It's impossible not to love the kids and all the people here. They are full of joy, even though their lives are tough. I love their smiles, so often filled with fluoride-stained and sugarcane-rotting teeth, but heartwarming nonetheless. I love their dedication to their families and their work ethic and their amazing names like Lightness and Happyness and Praygod. I love the beautiful Maasai women with intricate beads hanging from ears to collarbones and the bright prints the villagers wear and the often hilarious secondhand clothes from America they proudly tout. One day a while back, one of my favorite students named Yohana was sporting a neon shirt plastered with "Sunriver, Oregon" (a town just 15 miles from where I grew up). That I could find myself in the company of that shirt, all the way across the world, felt comforting and impossible and incredible all at the same time.
Vast expanses speckled with crooked acacia trees, which seem to be stretched out in search of companionship in the void of all that space; perfectly arranged rice patties that glisten in the sun all the way to the horizon; sweet, fresh mangoes and bananas sold by micro-communities of powerful women on every street corner; day after day after day of warm sunshine; elephants and giraffes roaming free, daring me to catch a glimpse of them in the trees; sunsets like I've never seen before, so multidimensional that each one appears more incredible than the last; lighting storms that electrify the clouds so magnificently they might make me believe in God, even just for a second; and when I take the time to stand still and look up into all that quiet, the endless night skies are filled with so many stars I sometimes feel like I will never close my eyes again.
For every moment that was difficult here, there are as many that were meaningful. I'm already forgetting about the many days I wished I could go home. These other things—these are the memories that will stick with me forever.
Before long, I stopped looking at that countdown and started finding things to enjoy here. Weeks went by quickly and then suddenly it had been months. I had a pretty rough patch in the middle where I got quite sick and lonely and everything froze but I came out of it. Now, the number of days has become so small, I've started looking at the app again. 12 days until I leave Mto wa Mbu for Zanzibar. 19 until I'll be home. Probably I should be reflecting about what I learned about myself and the world. That will come. For now, I just want to capture some anecdotes about my life here so that I can hang on to it after it's gone.
I could easily write a whole post about the hard stuff: that I'm currently typing this while listening to a family of rats running around in my kitchen; that I have fleas in my bed that won't quit; that a day doesn't go by during which I don't get frustrated with someone for lying to me about something pointless; how the church property I live on spends at least three hours every day blasting trumpets and tone deaf choir singers; that you must wait and wait and wait for anything to happen; that I cannot walk down the street without being chased by children screaming at me and asking for candy and money or sometimes reaching out to touch or slap my skin. These things are difficult and I won't miss them.
The sounds of my life: daily church choir practice outside my bedroom window. Chickens come free. Make sure your speakers are on if you want to experience my misery.
But as I begin facing my departure, I'm catching myself thinking about the good times and about the often charming absurdity of it all. Like the time we put 26 people in the school Land Cruiser and then I watched us pile out one at a time like from a clown car. Or when the next door neighbor's chicken came into my house and laid an egg on the couch. Or how, because the sun rises around six in the morning year round, when Tanzanians look at a clock pointing at 12, they call it six because that's when the day begins—with the sun. So by this logic, two is eight and 11 is five and nothing ever makes any sense. And how not once but three different times, we splurged and went to a fancy grocery store in the big city, only to come home to 48 hour power outages that put our fridge out of commission—and our coveted cheese and meat products in the trash.
Yet, among all the ludicrousness, there are so many moments of pure joy; moments that are so raw and unexpected, I sometimes catch myself smiling at nobody. Like the fact that despite being a culture that generally fears homosexuality, the men here are more affectionate than I've ever seen men at home. On campus and street corners and even in bars, some of my favorite moments are glimpses of boys and men walking sweetly hand in hand. I wish I could see this back home; I wish everyone was so comfortable showing friendship this way.
Or how instead of seeping road rage and frustration, the drivers work together to help each other. If you pay attention, you'll see drivers with their hands out their windows flashing signals to warn oncoming vehicles about what lies ahead. If a vehicle is stopped somewhere up the road, you'll know it because there will be shrubs littering the pavement on the approach. And if you're on a dangerous turn, the car in front of you will help you pass by using its blinkers to tell you when it's safe to go. But watch out if you're a pedestrian because you come last. Cars do not stop for you and in fact, at busy intersections, they will push right through you to get you out of the way.
The local drink of choice is Konyagi, a Tanzania gin, of which you can buy a whole bottle for two to five dollars, depending on the size. When the bartender brings you the bottle, he pops the bottom (like we used to do with Snapples) and then lays it on its side on the table. After pouring from it, you must always place it back on its side. You absolutely must! I still don't really understand why, though I've heard whispers about it keeping you from getting too drunk and also that "Tanzanians are tired from holding up all of Africa" or something else totally hyperbolic. What I do know is the hangover is drowning but that's never reason enough to stop drinking it.
One of the most endearing Tanzanian idiosyncrasies is how they remove the letter "y" from the end of most words, resulting in adorable adjectives like "craze" and "fance" and everyone—including all the students—calling me "Kels" and making me feel like we're all best friends. While at the same time, they add the letter "y" to a million other words that don't need them, like "andy" and "firsty" and "Microsofty Wordy."
- The Choosen One
- This is 2 Much
- Full Jesus
- Drama Boy
- Pappa Junior
- Led Zeppler
- Positive Vibration
- You Must Pay the Cost to the Boss
- Don't Panick Try Again
- God is Better Than Money
- Thank God 2day is Friday
- The Sniper
- Mo Best
- Michael Jordan
- UB 40
Once, when a powerful man was arrested, my friend Sheb said "the flood came and got him." He also told me that when it rains "a lion is giving birth" and when talking about death he said "nobody wants to sleep forever." He once told me that "friendship is expensive" (but mostly because he wanted something from me) and at a park entrance, when the guard tried to charge him extra for our car, he refused, exclaiming that "our car is not going to enjoy anything." He also once said, "you are better than potatoes" when he offered to drop his cooking to go help our friend who needed a ride. His favorite Americanisms I've taught him are "Do the Dew," calling crazy people "kuku" (which means chicken in Swahili) and the word "dope." Now, he thinks everything good is dope. The bad stuff, well that's "not dope" of course.
When discussing the effect climate change is having on their country, my friend Edward once said to me, "we don't have civil war like Sudan but we still starve." It was powerful and I'll never forget it; I've had a heart-shattering, up-close look at the realities of global warming—more on that in the previously noted "what did Kelsey learn" post to come. Though it really kept me from needing to learn much Swahili, I'm grateful the locals I know well speak such great English because I've so enjoyed listening to their perspectives on the world and politics. I think I've learned as much from them about America—what we have and what we lack—as I've learned about Tanzania. I've seen our students put Western kids to shame and at the same time, in a culture that adores our country, I've often felt ashamed to be American. I've watched kids' eyes open wide a hundred times at things I've said and places we've seen together. I've caught them smiling at me across the classroom in a way that make me sure they'll always remember me.
One of my very favorite students named Glory.
It's impossible not to love the kids and all the people here. They are full of joy, even though their lives are tough. I love their smiles, so often filled with fluoride-stained and sugarcane-rotting teeth, but heartwarming nonetheless. I love their dedication to their families and their work ethic and their amazing names like Lightness and Happyness and Praygod. I love the beautiful Maasai women with intricate beads hanging from ears to collarbones and the bright prints the villagers wear and the often hilarious secondhand clothes from America they proudly tout. One day a while back, one of my favorite students named Yohana was sporting a neon shirt plastered with "Sunriver, Oregon" (a town just 15 miles from where I grew up). That I could find myself in the company of that shirt, all the way across the world, felt comforting and impossible and incredible all at the same time.
Vast expanses speckled with crooked acacia trees, which seem to be stretched out in search of companionship in the void of all that space; perfectly arranged rice patties that glisten in the sun all the way to the horizon; sweet, fresh mangoes and bananas sold by micro-communities of powerful women on every street corner; day after day after day of warm sunshine; elephants and giraffes roaming free, daring me to catch a glimpse of them in the trees; sunsets like I've never seen before, so multidimensional that each one appears more incredible than the last; lighting storms that electrify the clouds so magnificently they might make me believe in God, even just for a second; and when I take the time to stand still and look up into all that quiet, the endless night skies are filled with so many stars I sometimes feel like I will never close my eyes again.
For every moment that was difficult here, there are as many that were meaningful. I'm already forgetting about the many days I wished I could go home. These other things—these are the memories that will stick with me forever.
