Some general observations/reflections
On religion. Many Tanzanians are quite religious, be it Muslim or Christian (Catholic, Pentecostal, Adventist, Lutheran etc.). In my Politics of Africa class last semester, we discussed how multiple factors can explain the strong presence of religion here, including as a longstanding source of foreign aid (through missionaries, donations etc.) and also because of the uncertainty of life for many Tanzanians. Religion becomes a cornerstone and something stable into which they can pour themselves for security and comfort, however false it may be. And mosques during Ramadan are particularly expressive and I'm going to go ahead and say it: obnoxiously intrusive. They have a loudspeaker attached to the building for all to hear their prayers. And the Pentecostal church next to my homestay in Usa River screams hymns and prayers until midnight or 1 in the morning, only to start again at 6 am the next day. It's mind blowing. I don't think this would be tolerated in the U.S. and could even be considered noise pollution. It certainly has the power to deprive one of sleep, as not even ear plugs can keep out the noise. I guess it also doesn't help that the neighboring church doesn't have glassed in windows or complete walls for that matter...
On manners and politeness. Tanzanians tend to always greet elders with "shikamoo," which is respectful, and people love to shake hands and exchange greetings with many kind words. Though in other regards, I don't think manners exist. Forming a line for the women's bathroom? Why would anyone do that when you can just shove your way to the front? And pushy dalla dalla conductors who shake change in your face, indicating that they want you to pay now, or physically pushing/pulling you to board their bus (um excuse me, but hands to yourself). And sitting on the nine hour bus ride today, I was excited to be seated next to a petite African woman who took up little space; until she spread her legs a mile, crossing into my leg room by at least half a foot. Her bony knees kept protruding into me and at one point I even asked her to please move. She did, but proceeded to relocate them into my area about 15 minutes later. And really, no matter what form of transportation I take, anywhere in the world (plane, bus, train, what have you), the person in front of me reclines their seat back all the way. I think I must wear a sign on my forehead welcoming it.
On sustainability. It seems that in some ways, it's forced sustainability. For instance, there isn't local recycling infrastructure, so many things such as water bottles, plastic bags, and plastic containers get re-used until they fall apart Newspapers can actually be re-sold, which is kind of funny to me, seeing as news becomes outdated quickly. And Helen and her family compost paper products such as toilet paper rolls with the vegetable scraps. The trash can in the kitchen is only about the size of a Nalgene water bottle (1 L volume) and I think about how we could fit about 20 into our kitchen waste basket at home. This automatically limits trash output. And today I asked Helen why the water has been out for so long. She told me that many new homes are being built and people in the neighborhood share the water, so sometimes overuse by one household means that there is nothing but a dry tap for everyone else. Fortunately, Helen has water tanks to store rainwater and they are very careful about water use (e.g. doing dishes in a tub). Showering or bucket baths are kind of a pain, so I only shower about 3 times a week. Second hand clothes and shoes can be found everywhere! Many people here grow food out of necessity for household food security and income generation. Local isn't a crazy trend and neither are farmers' markets: they are the way of life here. So unfortunately, poverty and hard times can encourage (or force) environmentally sustainable practices. Although they can also mean a lack of education: it's not uncommon for people to throw trash out of bus windows or as they walk down the street or not give a second thought to chopping down a tree.
On hotels. There is something strange and comforting about the anonymity of hotels. I am sitting in my small cube at Monique Lodge in Sengerema ($12 a night) where the double bed takes up 80% of the floor space and you can't open the bathroom door without it hitting the sink. I woke up momentarily thinking that I could be anywhere in the world - Venice, Italy like Alice in the travel memoir I am reading or even Massachusetts. This notion is comforting and troubling. Then there are both subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that I am in a village outside Mwanza on the shores of Lake Victoria. The over sized mosquito net slung over my bed - it almost resembles the gossamer bed canopy that I used to fantasize about having as a little girl, the fan that doesn't actually circulate air and therefore is useless against the stifling humidity, the shower that isn't contained in the bathroom but rather sprays water all over the entire room (who designed this?!?), that the power goes out at least once during the night, and of course, the relentless and ubiquitous crow of the rooster in the heinously early hours of the morning. However insignificant they may seem, these things are all enough to remind me that I'm in Tanzania.
A Chance Meeting: July 27, 2013
Well today was an interesting day to say the least. It began rather uneventfully as I woke up to do laundry. Almost two hours later, I had completed hand washing my belongings. It was early afternoon when I received a text from a woman who was in Arusha and wanted to meet up. We had made each other's electronic acquaintance via email when I posted to the Arusha mailing email list about wanting to travel to Zanzibar. Anne responded and explained how she was involved in nutrition and food science and the "slow food" in my email signature caught her attention; she proposed meeting up. I took a 40 minute dalla dalla ride to her hotel ("hoteli snow cresti" I told the conductor, indicating where I wanted to be let off. I am not sure why Tanzanians add "i's" to things, perhaps it's the Swahili equivalent of adding "o's" to Spanglish cognates - e.g. el chair-o). And do you know when you paint a picture of someone in your mind based on email and text exchanges? Well I had done just this. Before meeting Anne, I excpected a young (maybe 20s or 30s) white woman. But instead Anne was a woman in her 50s or 60s, dressed modestly, with brown skin and striking blue/gray eyes. I thought perhaps she was a New Zealand aboriginal, but it turns out she is Sri Lankan. She is also an extremely intriguing person. I could tell her intelligence right away, though it was humble. As we sat in the hotel lobby, two perfect strangers, she asked me about being born in China, which led to the discussion of my adoption. This opened the can of worms that was each other's life stories. I learned that she got her Bachelor's in Agriculture in Sri Lanka, her Master's of Science in Food Technology in India (an FAO funded scholarship), and her PhD in nutrition at Oregon State, with an MBA thrown in somewhere along the way. She's had experience lecturing at universities, working for large food retailers and corporations, and is now retired/self-employed as a food and nutrition consultant. She's lived in Sri Lanka, India, Brazil, New Zealand, the U.S., and Tanzania. The author of two professional works on nutrition, she also writes poetry and has published an autobiography dedicated to her step father. Anne also told me about her childhood dream to have twelve children because as an only child growing up, she hoped to have a big family. When she only had one child, she realized she could still have more in the figurative sense. She proceeded to call them "children of her heart." She mentioned the term nonchalantly in conversation and a bit puzzled, I asked what she meant. This opened up another can of worms. Her second child (or first "child of her heart") was her adopted younger brother from Sri Lanka, who didn't know he was adopted until their mother died and Anne became his legal guardian. Her third was a three year old from Brazil, a boy she felt compelled to sponsor when they moved to New Zealand. She told me stories of the various kids: 4 through 12 and the girl who asked to be 13, her lucky number, and 14-26. Anne thought this was enough and that she couldn't possibly open her heart more. Then she came to Tanzania almost three years ago and met a boy who she ended up sponsoring to go to university. Each of her kids has their own long story of how they met and continue to keep in touch. They are from Sri Lanka, Brazil, Tanzania, Taiwan, New Zealand, and even a set of Siamese twins. They range in ages: some fully grown adults, and both sons and daughters of various backgrounds. The only thing they have in common, however, is connecting with Anne in some profound and serendipitous way. Like the way we met on an expat oriented email list. While a common interest in food issues brought us together on this chance meeting, something more abstract and inexplicable bonded us this afternoon. It was strange really. I was captivated by her stories, her innovative approaches to combating food waste in Tanzania (such as creating candied orange peels and cooked banana blossoms), and the odd coincidences that marked us, as I was about to leave for Mwanza the next day with a scientist from AVRDC, the same woman who Anne had met in Nairobi just a few days earlier. Anne was also going to help lead a food preservation/processing training at AVRDC the next week. It was all too strange. And I'm not sure what motivated me, but I asked if I could be the 34th child of her heart. She was quiet at first and we continued conversing without addressing my request. We talked about her brother's adoption, as well as mine and my sister's. She read me a poem, which expressed her views on race and identity and deeply resonated with me. We laughed about both being called "China" (pronounced "cheena") by Tanzanian street touts trying to sell us things (mostly hilarious because she doesn't look Chinese in the least bit). And then the subject of finding my birth parents came up. I told her I didn't have any deep burning desire (if it were possible, which it isn't because of the unreliability of paperwork in state run Chinese orphanages). I illustrated my point with the anecdote about the Belgian family who contacted my family back in 2007 claiming that I was supposed to be their child; how my real birthday may be Christmas but I celebrate what my birth certificate says. She asked when my birthday is; March 24, I responded. She grew quiet and quickly began flipping through her autobiography. She came to photos from her wedding and pointed to a caption: March 24, 1973, their wedding anniversary. They had just celebrated 40 years. This sealed the deal for Anne, "of course you can be number 34," she smiled and hugged me. I had the shivers and began to weep. I felt so strangely close to this woman. We had exchanged so much personal information in less than two hours of knowing each other. And she doesn't always say yes when people ask. Anne has built a family of the world, not only of her heart. I suggested trying to host a sort of reunion, imagining what it would be like to get us all in a room, talking and sharing worldviews and experiences. Anne said to me, "some people read books and look for stories, while we are busy writing our own." It was simple but powerful, emphasizing our sense of human agency. Anne believes in God, fate, and the power of human intimacy. When I expressed my homesickness, she reassured me that now I have a second mother in New Zealand, someone I can email, Skype or call, no matter the time of day. I was moved. Together, we believe everything happens for a reason and that we must also take advantage of all opportunities that present themselves. That's what this afternoon was about. There are so many factors that could have thwarted our meeting, but it seemed meant to be. My phone alarm went off and a minute later hers rang - it was number 33 coming to meet her at the hotel. Then I saw a missed call from Jack and realized it was our two year anniversary - another big life event. I met Anne's 33rd - a PhD lecturer in biotechnology and food sciences at the Nelson Mandela African Institute of Science and Technology. How perfect. It was a haphazard chain of events that led to our meeting, but I am grateful. I know I have a welcomed place to stay in New Zealand and hope to stay in touch for a long, long time. I know this whole story sounds hokey, mad, and even a bit sketchy, but the sense of "meant to be" was inexplicably present.
On religion. Many Tanzanians are quite religious, be it Muslim or Christian (Catholic, Pentecostal, Adventist, Lutheran etc.). In my Politics of Africa class last semester, we discussed how multiple factors can explain the strong presence of religion here, including as a longstanding source of foreign aid (through missionaries, donations etc.) and also because of the uncertainty of life for many Tanzanians. Religion becomes a cornerstone and something stable into which they can pour themselves for security and comfort, however false it may be. And mosques during Ramadan are particularly expressive and I'm going to go ahead and say it: obnoxiously intrusive. They have a loudspeaker attached to the building for all to hear their prayers. And the Pentecostal church next to my homestay in Usa River screams hymns and prayers until midnight or 1 in the morning, only to start again at 6 am the next day. It's mind blowing. I don't think this would be tolerated in the U.S. and could even be considered noise pollution. It certainly has the power to deprive one of sleep, as not even ear plugs can keep out the noise. I guess it also doesn't help that the neighboring church doesn't have glassed in windows or complete walls for that matter...
On manners and politeness. Tanzanians tend to always greet elders with "shikamoo," which is respectful, and people love to shake hands and exchange greetings with many kind words. Though in other regards, I don't think manners exist. Forming a line for the women's bathroom? Why would anyone do that when you can just shove your way to the front? And pushy dalla dalla conductors who shake change in your face, indicating that they want you to pay now, or physically pushing/pulling you to board their bus (um excuse me, but hands to yourself). And sitting on the nine hour bus ride today, I was excited to be seated next to a petite African woman who took up little space; until she spread her legs a mile, crossing into my leg room by at least half a foot. Her bony knees kept protruding into me and at one point I even asked her to please move. She did, but proceeded to relocate them into my area about 15 minutes later. And really, no matter what form of transportation I take, anywhere in the world (plane, bus, train, what have you), the person in front of me reclines their seat back all the way. I think I must wear a sign on my forehead welcoming it.
On sustainability. It seems that in some ways, it's forced sustainability. For instance, there isn't local recycling infrastructure, so many things such as water bottles, plastic bags, and plastic containers get re-used until they fall apart Newspapers can actually be re-sold, which is kind of funny to me, seeing as news becomes outdated quickly. And Helen and her family compost paper products such as toilet paper rolls with the vegetable scraps. The trash can in the kitchen is only about the size of a Nalgene water bottle (1 L volume) and I think about how we could fit about 20 into our kitchen waste basket at home. This automatically limits trash output. And today I asked Helen why the water has been out for so long. She told me that many new homes are being built and people in the neighborhood share the water, so sometimes overuse by one household means that there is nothing but a dry tap for everyone else. Fortunately, Helen has water tanks to store rainwater and they are very careful about water use (e.g. doing dishes in a tub). Showering or bucket baths are kind of a pain, so I only shower about 3 times a week. Second hand clothes and shoes can be found everywhere! Many people here grow food out of necessity for household food security and income generation. Local isn't a crazy trend and neither are farmers' markets: they are the way of life here. So unfortunately, poverty and hard times can encourage (or force) environmentally sustainable practices. Although they can also mean a lack of education: it's not uncommon for people to throw trash out of bus windows or as they walk down the street or not give a second thought to chopping down a tree.
On hotels. There is something strange and comforting about the anonymity of hotels. I am sitting in my small cube at Monique Lodge in Sengerema ($12 a night) where the double bed takes up 80% of the floor space and you can't open the bathroom door without it hitting the sink. I woke up momentarily thinking that I could be anywhere in the world - Venice, Italy like Alice in the travel memoir I am reading or even Massachusetts. This notion is comforting and troubling. Then there are both subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that I am in a village outside Mwanza on the shores of Lake Victoria. The over sized mosquito net slung over my bed - it almost resembles the gossamer bed canopy that I used to fantasize about having as a little girl, the fan that doesn't actually circulate air and therefore is useless against the stifling humidity, the shower that isn't contained in the bathroom but rather sprays water all over the entire room (who designed this?!?), that the power goes out at least once during the night, and of course, the relentless and ubiquitous crow of the rooster in the heinously early hours of the morning. However insignificant they may seem, these things are all enough to remind me that I'm in Tanzania.
A Chance Meeting: July 27, 2013
Well today was an interesting day to say the least. It began rather uneventfully as I woke up to do laundry. Almost two hours later, I had completed hand washing my belongings. It was early afternoon when I received a text from a woman who was in Arusha and wanted to meet up. We had made each other's electronic acquaintance via email when I posted to the Arusha mailing email list about wanting to travel to Zanzibar. Anne responded and explained how she was involved in nutrition and food science and the "slow food" in my email signature caught her attention; she proposed meeting up. I took a 40 minute dalla dalla ride to her hotel ("hoteli snow cresti" I told the conductor, indicating where I wanted to be let off. I am not sure why Tanzanians add "i's" to things, perhaps it's the Swahili equivalent of adding "o's" to Spanglish cognates - e.g. el chair-o). And do you know when you paint a picture of someone in your mind based on email and text exchanges? Well I had done just this. Before meeting Anne, I excpected a young (maybe 20s or 30s) white woman. But instead Anne was a woman in her 50s or 60s, dressed modestly, with brown skin and striking blue/gray eyes. I thought perhaps she was a New Zealand aboriginal, but it turns out she is Sri Lankan. She is also an extremely intriguing person. I could tell her intelligence right away, though it was humble. As we sat in the hotel lobby, two perfect strangers, she asked me about being born in China, which led to the discussion of my adoption. This opened the can of worms that was each other's life stories. I learned that she got her Bachelor's in Agriculture in Sri Lanka, her Master's of Science in Food Technology in India (an FAO funded scholarship), and her PhD in nutrition at Oregon State, with an MBA thrown in somewhere along the way. She's had experience lecturing at universities, working for large food retailers and corporations, and is now retired/self-employed as a food and nutrition consultant. She's lived in Sri Lanka, India, Brazil, New Zealand, the U.S., and Tanzania. The author of two professional works on nutrition, she also writes poetry and has published an autobiography dedicated to her step father. Anne also told me about her childhood dream to have twelve children because as an only child growing up, she hoped to have a big family. When she only had one child, she realized she could still have more in the figurative sense. She proceeded to call them "children of her heart." She mentioned the term nonchalantly in conversation and a bit puzzled, I asked what she meant. This opened up another can of worms. Her second child (or first "child of her heart") was her adopted younger brother from Sri Lanka, who didn't know he was adopted until their mother died and Anne became his legal guardian. Her third was a three year old from Brazil, a boy she felt compelled to sponsor when they moved to New Zealand. She told me stories of the various kids: 4 through 12 and the girl who asked to be 13, her lucky number, and 14-26. Anne thought this was enough and that she couldn't possibly open her heart more. Then she came to Tanzania almost three years ago and met a boy who she ended up sponsoring to go to university. Each of her kids has their own long story of how they met and continue to keep in touch. They are from Sri Lanka, Brazil, Tanzania, Taiwan, New Zealand, and even a set of Siamese twins. They range in ages: some fully grown adults, and both sons and daughters of various backgrounds. The only thing they have in common, however, is connecting with Anne in some profound and serendipitous way. Like the way we met on an expat oriented email list. While a common interest in food issues brought us together on this chance meeting, something more abstract and inexplicable bonded us this afternoon. It was strange really. I was captivated by her stories, her innovative approaches to combating food waste in Tanzania (such as creating candied orange peels and cooked banana blossoms), and the odd coincidences that marked us, as I was about to leave for Mwanza the next day with a scientist from AVRDC, the same woman who Anne had met in Nairobi just a few days earlier. Anne was also going to help lead a food preservation/processing training at AVRDC the next week. It was all too strange. And I'm not sure what motivated me, but I asked if I could be the 34th child of her heart. She was quiet at first and we continued conversing without addressing my request. We talked about her brother's adoption, as well as mine and my sister's. She read me a poem, which expressed her views on race and identity and deeply resonated with me. We laughed about both being called "China" (pronounced "cheena") by Tanzanian street touts trying to sell us things (mostly hilarious because she doesn't look Chinese in the least bit). And then the subject of finding my birth parents came up. I told her I didn't have any deep burning desire (if it were possible, which it isn't because of the unreliability of paperwork in state run Chinese orphanages). I illustrated my point with the anecdote about the Belgian family who contacted my family back in 2007 claiming that I was supposed to be their child; how my real birthday may be Christmas but I celebrate what my birth certificate says. She asked when my birthday is; March 24, I responded. She grew quiet and quickly began flipping through her autobiography. She came to photos from her wedding and pointed to a caption: March 24, 1973, their wedding anniversary. They had just celebrated 40 years. This sealed the deal for Anne, "of course you can be number 34," she smiled and hugged me. I had the shivers and began to weep. I felt so strangely close to this woman. We had exchanged so much personal information in less than two hours of knowing each other. And she doesn't always say yes when people ask. Anne has built a family of the world, not only of her heart. I suggested trying to host a sort of reunion, imagining what it would be like to get us all in a room, talking and sharing worldviews and experiences. Anne said to me, "some people read books and look for stories, while we are busy writing our own." It was simple but powerful, emphasizing our sense of human agency. Anne believes in God, fate, and the power of human intimacy. When I expressed my homesickness, she reassured me that now I have a second mother in New Zealand, someone I can email, Skype or call, no matter the time of day. I was moved. Together, we believe everything happens for a reason and that we must also take advantage of all opportunities that present themselves. That's what this afternoon was about. There are so many factors that could have thwarted our meeting, but it seemed meant to be. My phone alarm went off and a minute later hers rang - it was number 33 coming to meet her at the hotel. Then I saw a missed call from Jack and realized it was our two year anniversary - another big life event. I met Anne's 33rd - a PhD lecturer in biotechnology and food sciences at the Nelson Mandela African Institute of Science and Technology. How perfect. It was a haphazard chain of events that led to our meeting, but I am grateful. I know I have a welcomed place to stay in New Zealand and hope to stay in touch for a long, long time. I know this whole story sounds hokey, mad, and even a bit sketchy, but the sense of "meant to be" was inexplicably present.
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