Let's bounce!

Time's up for me on Pemba.  Goodbyes, goodbyes, and more goodbyes.  It doesn't feel real; I don't feel at all like I'm leaving this country.  I can't bring myself to stop learning Kiswahili; I ask about new words even though there's a sense of futility about it.  But I got a good one a few days ago, a bit of slang: Tujikatae!  Let's bounce!  I'll be thinking that when I get on the plane.

I've been imagining what it will like to come home; I know I'll get a lot of questions about the place I lived and what it was like.  I'm not sure what I'll say; it's hard to condense this place into a few sentences.  So I decided to ask my friends.  I had a couple of going away parties at my house, with a mix of Pembans and foreigners who are working here.  I asked them all the question "What would you like me to tell people about Pemba?"  I recorded the answers and have some to share:

Bifatma Mgeni Haji, a District Education Officer
"Tell people that they shouldn't be afraid of coming to Pemba.  People here are very generous, they are very peaceful, they can go around in the middle of the night with no tensions.  They will see we have a very green island.  And if they like to swim, we are surrounded by the sea!  When you come back, you are not going to be a stranger here, you are coming home."

Helen Paul, a VSO education volunteer who's been to Pemba many times
"If I get the image of Pemba, I think of a daladala.  Overcrowded, with maybe a goat on the roof, and chickens inside, and it's full.  27 people, but the conductor says there is more room inside.  And then, someone gets on with a baby.  The men stand up, and offer the woman their chairs.  And if someone needs to get off, they help them to get their luggage off.  People help each other.  You see both sides of Pemba in that:  people being pushy, danger as the daldala is driving too fast, but on the other hand, you see people living with their hearts and helping other people."

Annelies, a Dutch VSO education volunteer
"You have to tell Americans that the people here are very very helpful.  For example, we went for a bike ride and someone forgot their bag.  They brought it back to us.  If we forget our lock, someone will bring the lock.  We forgot a birthday cake for somebody in a daladala, and the daladala comes after us to bring us the cake.  They are very very helpful."

Michael Trichler, a former Peace Corps Volunteer who now lives on Pemba
"I think it's best if I try to explain what I hope my son will take away from living here.  There are some aspects of Pemba that I really want deeply engrained in my son.  One of them being the respect for elders.  I can't say it's been lost in the US, but there are definitely times when it seems it has been.  For example, the elderly are often put away into homes and are not taken care of by their children.  So that's one thing that I want my son to take away, that respect for elders.

"Another is: although people here are very poor, they are definitely very giving.  You go to someone's house, they might not have a lot of money, but if they invite you over you're gonna have some really nice food.  Those are the things that really stick out to me: that sense of sharing and community that's so deeply engrained in the culture here, as well as the respect for elders."

Khamis Rajab, my neighbor
"When you arrive in America, tell people that in this island, we live peacefully.  Also tell them that our cloves are first grade (laughter).  The best cloves come from here."

Maulid, an English teacher at the youth center
"It is not cloves which are our best thing - Kiswahili is what we have to offer the world!"

Sjoerd va Setten, a Dutch VSO doctor
"One of the major differences between the States and here, or between the Netherlands and here, is the pace of life.  In Holland and the States we really live and work by the clock.  Everything is divided into 10s of minutes or quarter hours and you have a very tight schedule and there's not a lot of free time for family and friends."

Hadia Othman, an American who has decided to retire in Pemba
"Being in Pemba has brought out the best in me.  There are things and qualities about me that I didn't even know existed.  And coming here and slowing down and using the facial muscles that are required to make you smile..... my face hurt for the first couple of months because I was smiling so much.  The people here are absolutely wonderful, and I love being around them.  It may seem that people here are poor.  But in my opinion, they live in wealth and royalty, because the things that they have, no money can buy."

Hamid Haji, a member of my community English club
"There is space for visitors to come from abroad to our island to see some of our traditions, or some of our important things like animals and forests.  We have a lot of things like this.  We have a lot of lessons; if they want to come here, they are welcome.  Tell them "Oh!  Welcome to Pemba!"  It is a good place, there are good people, even if you come from some other place, or a different tribe, or a different religion.  If you visit some places in the world, people will dislike you because you are different, but in Pemba we don't have this thing. 

"When guests come to visit our island, they should feel free to be together with us.  Because I saw a lot of people when they come here to visit our island, they don't give anyone a chance to talk to them.  They don't have conversation with us.  They just say "hello" and keep walking.  Talk to them, tell them they can talk to us, don't run away!"


That's all for now.  Tujikatae!

Friends at a going away party

My wonderful neighbors Biramla, Khamis, and their daughter Khadija.  Some of the best friends I've had over the last two years.

Dis-integration

Two years ago I arrived in Tanzania, and since then I've been making friends, learning language, eating new foods, adopting new behavior..... "integration," in a word.  And it's not over.  I still find myself trying to increase my vocabulary, deepen friendships, and better understand the culture here.  I'm not quite ready to leave; I like my life here and it's hard to let go.  But the day is coming.  A month from today I will sign some papers in Dar Es Salaam and I will no longer be a Peace Corps volunteer.  So even as I deepen my relationship with this place, I find myself beginning to pull up my roots. 

My life on Pemba is beginning to unravel; little pieces seem to be breaking off and dissolving.  One day a few books disappear from my shelf, the next some clothes are given away, and eventually I'll have to give in and start taking down the maps, pictures, and cards that have been hanging on my walls.  A third of my students left my school last month to take their exit examinations.  My lessons with them already seem to be a distant memory.  Another third of my students are having their last day at school today, leaving me with only a few students and a handfull of lessons to teach over the next few weeks.  It seems there will be no explicit, this-is-goodbye moment at my school; rather my participation there is fading away.

Goodbyes are happening at the same slow, steady pace.  For the last month, each time I've met up with another volunteer, it's ended with "see you.... someday.... maybe!"  Likewise, farewells to my Pemban friends are already beginning.  I had a few free days last week, so I went to Unguja (the bigger island) to see some friends who are studying there.  I'm starting to compile full names, addresses, and phone numbers in an address book.  Who knows when I'll be back, but whether it's 5 years or 15, I'll want to be able to track down old friends. 

I'm feeling resistance towards leaving, but I think as the next few weeks pass, the process will snowball.  Hopefully I'll fall in with that acceleration, and when the day comes, it will feel like the right time to go.

VSO friends Annelies, Sarah, and Juanito.  Sarah and Juanito recently finished their volunteer projects on Pemba.  Juanito lived on Pemba for over 3 years, and was one of the first people to welcome me when I arrived.

In May I went to a close of service conference in Dar.  It was a reunion of all the volunteers who came to Tanzania in June 2011.  Tyler, Marielle, Brie, and Becca were my neighbors and language classmates for the first 3 months in country.

The staff of my school at last month's graduation.

Hassan on his graduation day.  He was one of my best students and is an all around positive and friendly guy.  I'll miss him.

One of my English classes on their last day of school.

On the right is Mchanga, my neighbors' daughter.  She's a nursing student on Unguja.  I was lucky enough to have free time to go visit her before I leave.

Mussa and Khamis, two of the original members of my community English club. 

Home Stretch

COS.  The sacred acronym of the Peace Corps Volunteer.  Close Of Service.  The End.  It's been a topic that I've tried to avoid thinking about; it was always too far away to tease myself with.  But suddenly it seems right around the corner.  It's 4 months away, which is a hefty chunk of time, but everywhere I look something reminds me of the finish line.....

-This week is the beginning of my last term of teaching.  It's a mixed blessing to have COS on my mind; on the one hand I really want to sink my teeth into teaching and help my students as much as possible before they sit for their national exams, but at the same time it's hard to be distracted by "the end" when I'm just at the beginning of a term. 

-I'm reminded of leaving whenever I buy anything long lasting.  "Don't buy that giant bottle of honey!  That lasts 10 months!  Most of it will go to waste!"

-I just wrote a request to leave 2 weeks earlier than expected, so that I can leave before Ramadan starts.  The "official" wheels of my departure are starting to turn....

-The Big Dipper is up in the night sky.  One of the things I really enjoy about living near the equator is that the constellations cycle throughout the year.  The Big Dipper disappears for about 6 months.  It's coming into view for the third time since I've been in Tanzania, which means I've been here for a while!

-The first patters of the rainy season are falling.  This is another turning-of-the-year marker that I notice, reminding me that I'm entering my second and last season of heavy rains on Pemba.

-My mom and brother's visit is over.  This means no more visits from people in America to look forward to.  Another aspect of my experience completed.

-My friends around town often ask how much more time I have left.  Only recently they began exclaiming "Oh! 4 months?  That's not very long at all!"  I can't seem to escape the reminders....

-I'm starting to get wedding invitations for dates just after I return to the US.  How am I supposed to ignore my excitement for my friends??  Can't help but daydream about travel plans and celebrations....

-When I walk around may house I start making lists of my possessions.  "Take that back to the US, give this to a friend, sell that, sell this, throw that away......" 

It's still a long way to go, but I can't help it!  Thoughts of leaving are invading my brain!  I'm trying to stay focused on today and this week.  I still have a lot of work to do.  Returning to the US always felt like a far off dream; today it's a reality.  Exciting!

Family Visit!

Sheesh!  Back in November I told myself I was going to go on a blogging spree..... and now it's March. 

There's good inclination to post something now; my mom and my brother just came for their visit!  My mom arrived at Kilimanjaro's airport and we spent a week on the mainland before going collect Neale on Zanzibar.  It was really everything I hoped it would be.

I invited my brother Neale to contribute something to the blog; he's written some very vivid impressions.  My mom has also given me a poem that she wrote while we were high in the Usambara Mountains, overlooking miles of savannah.  I hope you enjoy!  And there are some pictures at the end for you to see something more of our travels

From Neale:

Some impressions   

    After 40 hours of travel:
    Despite my fears, Dave finds me easily in the tiny airport. He is a new color – somehow the sun has made him more earthy. We find Mom near the bathroom. We are all together, an improbable meeting, surprising and happy.
    Dave furnishes me with a coconut from which to drink.

    Stonetown, the heat:
    The equatorial sun is intense. To say it beats down isn’t quite right though; it lays upon you, it has weight. The shafts of it stack against the alley walls like atomized bars of gold.

    Bread:
    Juanito calls the blocky bread gold bars or gold bricks, I can’t remember which. They lie in stacks on the wooden sill outside the soot-stained cavern of the bakery, as if they have been unearthed. Or in the glass cases of vendors in Stonetown, a horde bought for 300 shillings.

    Home:
    The homes are built of brick, cinder or rough-hewn stone, the as-yet-unused in ramping piles by the road. The mortar naked in the walls, shaded by rusting corrugated roofs. These side-by-side with mud huts capped in thatching. These brown walls, these long stems and fronds, they’re beautiful. The twisting branches that stand as frame, the mud and stone that compact around the square space, the thatching brown and dry, they are beautiful, organic, part of the land.

    The West:
    The mud-walled hut is the epitome of poverty in the Western mind.

    Going on:
    The sublimely adult. Doing, day after day, what is necessary, to eat, to care for one’s children. Laughter and welcome, warmth in the heart. Enforced simplicity. Making the best of this fraught life.
    In this frame, aid work seems the reverse of the paternalistic paradigm – more like children coming home to aid their parents.

    Mother:
    On the road by the harbor we saw a chicken without a beak. How did she lose it, or had she ever had one? Around her a brood of tiny chicks peeping. She raised her head and eyed us as we passed. Then she went back to eating in the roadside weeds with her hardened lips.

    Help:
    Dave told me that if the young men could find good work they would almost certainly stay on Pemba. He also said that if they had a good education system and good health care, he thought no aid would be required.

    I remember to pay attention:
    Banana leaves that sound like rain in the night breeze. A rooster that crows the chorus to a sea shanty. Great bats that fly like night birds from the trees; they have the faces of foxes, feed only on fruit. Beach sand as fine as flour. Coconut meat as white and rubbery as squid. The scratch of a grass broom on the stoop like the scrabble of a chicken. A cell tower that seems to fall and fall as clouds race over it. The song of the prayer call, subjected to pop-song autotune by the loud speaker. Fishing boats of rough-hewn planks, tree trunk for spar, iron rivets gone to rust, yellowing cotton in the chinks – they ought to sink but glide elegant on their way, triangular sails the color of parchment and trimmed full.

    What is real? :
    Life here seems earthy, quotidian, real. The filling of baskets with fruit, the sorting of beans. The steadiness of the calls to prayer. Ancillary concerns seem rarely heeded or mulled. Something simple as meeting is an event. Now we eat, now we drink, now walk, now laugh.
    A sense of the surreal still hangs on. My other lives hover about my head, at the corners of my vision, disregarded ghosts, tiny and insubstantial.

    Where is my home:
    Finally, we say goodbye. Dave bequeaths us to the system of air travel. After several take-offs and landings, Mom and I part in Addis Ababa. I sleep nervously, eat a bowl of noodles, board my next flight at 1 AM.
    I doze, flying at a speed only possible in dreams, through dark and cold. -80 degrees outside the window. We are higher than the Himalaya.
    The day dawns and sets at an alarming rate – we are traveling against the sun. I have lost any feeling for what time it ought to be. When we bank I see China’s snow-dusted peaks and brown valleys, winter-bare.
    We touch down in Beijing. The sun glowers like molten iron. Airplanes disappear in the smog just after take-off. What nightmare of cityscapes am I traveling through?
    Another late flight. At last I see the lights of Incheon beside the dark western sea. A final chirp of the wheels on the tarmac. The airport ghostly at this hour. I shiver at the taxi stand.
    I wake in my hotel in the morning and look out the window at the frozen river. Below me, muddy yards, refuse, metal roofs, grey cement walls. An old woman sweeps her step with a bamboo broom. I imagine it must sound much like the scratching of a chicken in dry leaves under a banana tree. 


From my mom, Robyn:

Mile high in the Usambara mountains, staying on a ridgetop overlooking the northern Tanzanian plains, several hours spent watching the changing light and shadows ... a poem arises:

The Sweetness of Red Dirt

The sweetness of red dirt
Rising
Swelling with the updraft
A child herding calves
In the late afternoon sun,
The shadows shift
With the shading clouds
And angles define
With the setting day
How Earth and Sky reflect

Shadows stretch long
Revealing
What a painter knows
That colors are a continuum
And the horizon
Joins the whole

Mango juice with mom in Moshi

Kilimanjaro at dawn from our hotel room

Mom and I went to a lodge in the Usambara Mountains, close to Kenya.  The mountains rise suddenly out of the savannah.  On the top right you can see one of the lodge's rooms, looking out over a one mile drop down to the plains.

The view from our tent's terrace.  Nice way to wake up in the morning.  =)

Collecting Neale!  Stop #1 outside the airport: coconut water, my new favorite remedy for all traveling aches and pains.

A street vendor preparing dafu: young coconut with water and soft meat inside.

Together!

Sauti Za Busara (Sounds of Wisdom), the annual African music festival in Stonetown

Out for a bike ride on Pemba!

Neale checks out a dhow (wooden fishing boat) at low tide.

More dafu!  I love the look on Neale's face - the dafu meat is delicious....