http://www.youtube.com/watch?
Geneva in Tanzania
Disclaimer: The contents of this web site are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. Government or the Peace Corps.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Iringa crew makes a video
Staying at our favorite guesthouse, waiting for our shadowers and replacements to arrive, Sarah, Glenn and I make a video!
http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=F42l1wTe0wY&feature=youtu.be
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Graduation!
As always I was put on the decorating
committee for Form VI graduation. Every time we choose up committees
I joke I should be a bouncer, DJ or MC and once I made it as far as
being put with the cooks but for some reason I usually seem to end up
mapamboni no matter what I do. This makes very little sense.
The Tanzanian tradition of decorating everything in sight line with
as many ribbons, draped clothes and bows as they can lay their hands
on is something I find slightly repugnant to my American senses of
both style and efficiency.
My intrepid team of form four girls ask “Madam should we use green or pink
bows here?... Madam where can we find more lace cloth?... Madam do
these ribbons look right?” But the answer is always the same: I
really couldn't care less.
I do make an effort though. Friday
night we stayed until eleven o'clock in the staffroom turning it into
somewhere I might have been delighted to have my fifth birthday. I
realize of course that American traditions are just as arbitrary and
held just as dear. Why can't we have graduations without those
ridiculous robes and hats? Why isn't Christmas Christmas without a
tree? Why does Thanksgiving necessarily mean a turkey? Still, as a
dispassionate observer it all seems utterly ridiculous.
The staff room when I was finished with it. |
Graduation itself was long (starting
two hours late) and mostly much more interesting than the average
Tanzanian function, at least for me. My students sang, danced, made
speeches and put on a thirty minute farce (komedi) which
addresses the themes of sex, drugs, drinking, love. It included
cross-dressing and some slapstick so realistic the first time I saw
it I literally gasped and thrust my fingers to my mouth and ended
with a joke about incest and mistaken identity. Obviously, it brought
the house down.
The singing was moving. I've always
been a sucker for all-men choirs, call and response songs and songs
that include hand clapping, all of which were featured heavily. The song that contained a thanks specifically to me made me tear up and hate myself for not having my camera with me.
After the ceremony the graduates and
the students who paid for the food piled into classes where rice,
pilau, beans, beef stew, cabbage, bananas and sodas (what a feast!)
are waiting for them. The invited guests had almost the same, except
served from much nicer dishes and in the staffroom. As event
coordinators, we teachers dashed about making sure that everything
was as it should be. Only when the music was beginning out in the
parade ground and all the official guests had left did we settle down
for our own plates of food and beer/soda.
Since very few people have cameras
every party has a band of roving photographers who line up
participants in the shrubbery to take essentially the same pictures
over and over again with different people in them. As something of an
oddity in my community I am a big star of these photos and almost the
only one who ever smiles. The day after the photos will be printed in
town and then sold back to the people who requested them. As an
American living my life in the post printed photos paradigm I am
sometimes scolded for taking pictures I never bring back.
The music is all gospel and Bongo
Flavor (East Africa's idea of pop) and Tanzanians are pretty terrible
dancers by American standards when they are trying to be polite. At
the sketchy discos in the big cities people have seen enough rap
videos to know how to really shake their booties.
But in a village where there is no electricity and anyway
everyone knows you, your mother and your wife, its mostly a lot of
elbow work and shifting of weight from one foot to another to the
principle beat. My friends are unduly impressed with my ability to
mimic this behavior and I am always congratulated several times at
any party on my dancing. As with a lot of things, when it comes to my
dancing I secretly suspect that a lot of Tanzanian interest comes
down to a sort of 'look-at-what-the-monkey-can-do' fascination. I'm
never entirely sure what they're actually impressed with and what
they're only impressed with because I'm American. Whatever. I'll take
what I can get.
The teachers and staff dance the Tanzanian version of the twist to resounding approval from the school. |
As I said, I like showing off my
stuff. But as I walked back to the staffroom with the other adults I
couldn't help but feel strangely envious of the kids. They let the
music play until eleven (though they only had permission until nine)
and then they piled back into the dorms, rowdy and elated. The other
teachers all went back to their families and kids. I'm the only one
who went back to an empty house (except for the lizards). Being a
teacher is fun, being the center of attention is exhilarating, having
people interested in me and being respected is great. But being an
outsider is hard.
Friday, January 20, 2012
An Education
I am asked more often than you would
believe about the American system of education: almost as often as I
am asked what exactly we are doing with all the corn we grow
if we aren't pounding it into cornflower and then making a flavorless
paste the texture of play-doh to eat twice a day (look up Ugali on
the internet... it's the national food of Tanzania). So it's past
time I explained to Americans the Tanzanian system.
When they are two years old
Tanzanian's start nursery school which is called Chekechea. I
like that because it sounds a lot like the word for laugh in Swahili
and I always imagine them sitting around and laughing a lot as they
learn to count. After nursery school, at about five, they go to
Schule ya Msingi (literally “the important school”).
When they are twelve years old
Tanzanians finish with Schule ya Msingi and mandatory education. Very
few go any further in their education either because they didn't pass
the national examination or because they cannot afford the school
fees to continue on to Secondary School. School fees at Sadani (a
relatively big government school) are 150,000 Tsh for the boarding
students per term which is roughly 100 USD.
At Secondary School students do four
years of O-level (ordinary level) education at the end of which there
is another national exam to determine if they are fit to continue on
to two years of A-level (advanced level).
In O-level, for the first time,
English is the medium of teaching (at least in theory). If the
teachers do speak English in the classroom often its would be almost
intelligible to a native speaker. In college my friend Jackson once
took a class on existentialism and taught us all what a simulacrum
was (a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy...). Unless you
really commit to watching foreign television (and have the resources
to make that happen for yourself) your English is going to be an
imperfect copy of your teacher's already imperfect copy.
In my opinion it's not fair to spring
English on them in the secondary school. Swahili is a blessedly
logical language. If you tell me the infinitive of a word I can
(99.999% of the time) tell you every variation of it given enough
time to mull it over. There are also only four possible tenses (the
present, the future, the past and the recent past) and the last two
are almost perfectly interchangeable. I suppose if you grow up
speaking it, you must assume every other language is equally well
constructed. The moment when you comprehend the devilry of irregular
verbs and the pluperfect must be like a fall from the paradise of a
straight-forward trade language.
In A-level Tanzanians choose a
“combination” which determines which subjects they study. My
school specializes in science and offers three: PCB (Physics,
Chemistry, and Biology), PCM (Physics, Chemistry, and Math) and CBG
(Chemistry, Biology, and Geography). And yes, the PCM students do
look down on all the other combinations as being “soft.” My
current favorite Tanzanian rap song contains the lyric “I studied
PCM, not PCB!” as a cocky rapper boast. My current PCM students are
forever slowing down my lessons by asking for derivations from first
principles. Buncha geeks.
After A-level it's university if you
pass your exam (and not many do even though the pass mark is 21%) and
if not most people go to a two year teachers college and learn to be
O-level teachers. Yet another depressing simulacrum.
Recently I was in my evening office
hours and what started as a conversation about Logic Gates got
sidetracked (evening office hours almost always do) into me
explaining to Elia and Justin nursery school to college. When I said
most Americans graduate university at twenty-two they both burst out
laughing.
“But shouldn't you finish A-level by
the time you're nineteen and college by the time you're maybe
twenty-two or three?” I asked, pointing at the juxtaposed schedules
of the two educational systems I'd drawn on the board in between a
million truth tables.
This is the kind of naivete that I
thought I'd left behind months ago. Nothing in Tanzania goes on
schedule.
Every year the teachers at my school
spend hours meticulously drawing up a schedule for all the classes
and then spend the next year patently ignoring it. There are
scheduled sports and games, scheduled times for maintenance and
official people for electricity, plumbing and each dormitory. But
life gets in the way.
This week we are preparing for the
District Commissioner to visit the school. I asked who exactly that
was for days before realizing that no one else on campus was a
hundred percent sure what his job was. Despite this, it's a big deal. We've
been almost literally painting the roses red for his arrival. Edging all the school's pathways bricks have been laid and then painted white.They won't last more than a week and a half since it's the rainy
season. On Friday none of the O-level students went to a single
class because they were all doing school maintenance work and all of
the teachers were running around trying to supervise them.
“If you're very blessed; if you're
very lucky you can graduate on time,” Elia said with a laugh. “Like my young brother. He is starting O-level this year and he's only twelve. I
was twenty-four when I took my national examination for O-level.”
“How old are you?” I asked Justin,
who I had log assumed was the youngest in my class.
“I'm twenty-three.”
I'm twenty-three too but I don't say
so. We just go back to Logic Gates and hoping against hope, all of
us, that they pass their national exams.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The most cheerful Christmas blog ever to begin with thoughts on Chinese water torture
A lot of the problems we Peace Corps
volunteers find particularly troubling are in the
Chinese-water-torture school of discomfort: anything done too many
times becomes uncomfortable and then quickly unbearable. The same
food, people, questions, clothes, problems with the phone network or
spotty electricity or water (if you're lucky enough to have it). For
example, I have recently become tired of every single article of
clothing I have on this continent. My morning routine has become like
dressing my own sullen five-year-old. I stare into my clothes cabinet
and pout until I'm late for school.
The worst of the monotony-as-torture
problems though is loneliness. We're all adults. We can go a whole
day without seeing our mothers or our friends. But days become weeks,
then months, then a year and a half. Around the holidays, an
emotional landmine under the best of circumstances, this is
particularly poignantly painful.
So when I made the decision to spend
Christmas in my village, away from other Americans to commiserate
with, away from skype or even a totally reliable phone line, I was
nervous. I'd made precautions: found people to spend the day with,
bought some small gifts for my neighbor children that I knew would be
a hit, downloaded some Christmas music to listen to, and even bought
a bottle of wine the last time I was in town. Historically however
I've been excellent at tricking my father into thinking that I don't
need to “do anything” for the holidays and then waking up all
nostalgic and emotional on the 24th and moping around
until he buys a tree. If I pulled a similar bait-and-switch on myself
I would have already missed the last bus out of my village. Stuck.
But the 25th dawned clear
and beautiful: a crisp seventy degrees with plenty of sunshine. I
woke up, baked a Funfetti cake (the bag of premade mix had been a
real splurge at about four dollars US), packed it into my backpack
with my speakers, some presents and my bottle of wine and walked the
fifteen minutes into Sadani metropolitan to visit Mama Benny.
We had agreed to start at nine o'clock
but she called to say I should come at ten. When I arrived at eleven,
the cake having taken longer than expected, I was only a little bit
late. She'd cooked the rice and was just starting to make it into
pilau.
Pilau! (That I ate!) |
The idea of doing different things on
different holidays has yet to reach these sunny shores. Depending on
what we are celebrating Americans cook a turkey, drag a tree into our
house and stick lights on the roof, hide eggs around our lawn, dress
in costumes and give out candy or simply drink until we are sick and
pour green food coloring into everything we can think of including
the river. Whatever the occasion however Tanzanians cook a huge pot
of pilau (a spiced rice), and invite their friends to visit. If
you're flush you buy people you know soda or beer. If you're broke
(or you don't know how to cook pilau) you walk around sampling what
everyone else has cooked.
Being flush, we cooked pilau and some
beef stew and had some of it with the cake I made (a huge hit even
though I hadn't had the time to make any frosting for it). Having
neglected to mail Christmas cards this year I had also brought over
some poster paper and crayons to make some photo Christmas cards to
email out. Benny and Imelda (a young girl of indeterminate relation
to Mama Benny) helped enthusiastically. Some of my students, who had
wandered by to charm some pilau out of me and Mama B, helped hold
them up.
Then for the rest of the day we sat
around listening to American Christmas music on my speakers on Mama
Benny's couches and not “doing anything.” It was nice. Also
sweltering after we polished off my bottle of wine, she bought us
beers and then the neighbors came over with a bucket of Ulanzi, the
local moonshine.
I suppose that's how you're supposed
to spend Christmas. Not doing much with people you genuinely care
for. Except for the Ulanzi, the endless pilau the neighbors heaped on
me and the care packages I have been told are en route, I didn't
receive a single present this year. But when Mama Grayson and I
walked back to the school well after dark the moon was so bright we
could see the road clearly and we were laughing hysterically and it
was a very merry Christmas indeed.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Termite Day
So this yesterday morning I woke up and found my
living room floor crawling with insects. A particularly unpleasant
experience since there are no lights in my house and I found this out
by stumbling onto a couple of them on my way to open a window. But
things like that have long ceased to bother me and I had already
cavalierly swept them outside and started cooking breakfast when my
phone rang.
“Geneva come to the water spout. I
want to show you something?”
“Okay, coming.”
What Mama Benny wants me to see is the
two enormous buckets of the same insects I just got rid of that she and the librarian have gathered up in the
girl's dormitory and are washing the wings off of. Ah yes... I had forgotten that the
mating/flying stage of the termite life cycle (arguably the grossest stage) is a delicacy in
Tanzanian cuisine. The occasional days when they all spring forth from the
damp earth like a zombie hoard are almost holidays. Neither Mama
Benny or the librarian do much work and even my grading is
periodically interrupted when I am called to the school kitchen (a
shack where the school lunches are prepared in pots the size of small
hot tubs) to look at something particularly interesting. Maybe its
just that Christmas is looming.
The strangest thing about the day, except for the half pound of bugs in a frying pan, is how I behaved like a tourist in my own village. I squirmed, giggled and finally went to get my camera to
document the cooking. I made five or six tentative gestures to my
mouth with the first one before finally popping it in (Simon,
watching me do this, remarks “Madam you are funny!” and Elisius
shouts out “Don't eat them Madam! They are bugs!” before breaking
into laughter).
The second strangest thing is how delicious termites actually are. They are nice and fatty (you don't even need to
add any oil to the pot to cook them), the perfect size for snacking
and they have a nice crunch but it's the flavor that really make
them. Not exactly spicy but there is a definite zest to them: the
closest thing I can think of is puffed pork cracklin's. I think they
could catch on.
Anyway...pictures:
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Mabadiliko Yanaweza/ Change is Possible Boys Conference
The first official Boys Empowerment
Conference in Iringa Region Tanzania happened this year the week after Thanksgiving.
If you notice a peculiar upswing in your mood (or possibly your
libido) that week its likely it was due to the psychic energy of the
forty teenage boys we crowded into a small conference room in a
Catholic Mission just outside of Mafinga to talk about HIV/AIDS,
alcohol and drugs, fatherhood , gender versus sex, gender roles,
condoms, masturbation and of course girls, girls, girls, girls!
It was our second gender empowerment
conference in the region (Girl's Empowerment happened in June) and so
of course it was a study in contrasts. The essentials were still
there: a talent show (including a skit that could have been a three
act opera and half a dozen rap songs), opening and closing speeches,
certificates of completion,
sports and games, and a question and answer session that covered a
shocking amount of ground. But in a lot of ways it was really different.
The Girls Conference was an amazing,
transformative, near-spiritual experience that culminated in a dance
party the likes of which will never be seen again. It was also the
logistical equivalent of a week-long game of a whack-a-mole. I am
happy to say that Peace Corps volunteers are pretty quick studies
though. Boy's conference was exhausting, but it wasn't quite the mad
dash we all knew it could have easily been. We also moved away from
having a lot of guest speakers and let our Tanzanian “Counter
Parts,” the friends and colleagues we brought with us from our
village do most of the heavy lifting.
But of course the biggest difference,
no matter how much we talk about gender equality, was that we were
dealing with boys and not girls. Tanzanian boys have a wonderful
assertiveness and confidence. Not to say that the girls don't have it
at all but they don't have it in the metric tons, cartloads, bushels and barrels like the boys do. The boys have machismo, panache and the ability to ask the question “how much masturbation
is too much masturbation?” with a completely straight face. It's impossible not to love them for it.
Enjoy some pics below:
Maxing and relaxing outside after a hard day's condom demonstration. |
Can you name all the parts of the penis? In Swahili? These boys can. |
The whole gang! |
Saturday, December 17, 2011
What's in a name?
My next door neighbor Upendo has three
boys: Derrick, Dennis and Davis. My academic mistress has a girl and
a boy: Ester and Elia. The swahili/english teacher has a boy and a
girl: Frankie and Faradja. The school secretary has only a girl but
her name is Brightness Bahati Bange. I have two students who sit
right next to each other whose names are Katemi Katemi and Juma Juma.
In the classroom next door there is Abhassan Hassan, Nock Nock and
Raymond Romance. There is Mr. Tayari, whose name means Mr. Ready and
of course I round out the the hilarity by having the funniest
possible name for the only white teacher in sixteen hundred square
kilometers.
Of Upendo's boys Derrick is the
oldest: seven and very solemn. I like to ask him how his problems are
(a common greeting here) because he always looks so world weary when
he says that they are fine. He is the most respectful, well-behaved
seven-year-old I have ever met too. He is enormously kind to his
younger brother, very respectful with my things when he comes over to
play and how excited he gets when he sees his mom and dad when they
come back from work is frankly touching.
Davis is not quite a month old and
obviously excruciatingly adorable. He and Upendo are spending her
maternity leave lying together in bed almost all day, nursing,
sleeping and snuggling. I've seen them apart exactly once so far. But
they welcome visitors at any time of day and he is developing quite a
bag of ticks to entertain. So far he can open his eyes all the way,
yawn, grab your fingers, mew softly, smile and sigh.
But however much I love Derrick and
Davis, Dennis is my favorite child in the world. He and I both
arrived in Sadani on the 24th of November but his birthday
is exactly one year before the day I moved in. Dennis isn't an angel
like Derrick. He's a little brother and a little spoiled by Derrick,
who almost always lets him have his way. He's only just learning to
talk and sometimes he comes over while I'm working to play various
games with me. In one game we call each others names for an extended
periods of time in various emphatic ways: “Neva.” “Dennie.”
“NEVA!” “DENNIE!” “Neva!” “Dennie!” “Neva.”
“Dennie.” “Nevaaaaaaa.” “Dennnnnnnnnnie.” and so
on. In another he touches his nose and I make a beeping noise until
he stops or until I run out of breath. In another he points at
various things and asks “what?” and I tell him the word for it.
In another he sits on my chest and we roar at each other with lions.
In another he simply tries to knock the breath out of me while I lie
on the floor by sitting on my stomach as hard as he can. For some
reason I am actually a huge fan of that last one.
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