Just Pictures.

Oh, we'll get to the sickness story! But a few photos I forgot to post first. Below, with Emmanuel in the safari jeep - only 18! But so mature and thoughtful, and how I hope he does get to South Africa to train to be a chef, and make his dreams come true.

Where there's no copyright, there's Obama everywhere. Yes we can chew strawberry gum, my friends! 

Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Women carrying the stuff of life - water, food, and firewood.

And an amazing baobab:

Picture Post!

A few from Meggie's camera that just came in...

More dried fish in the Iringa market:

On July 22 in Iringa, and two proud women NOT using the wireless hotspot, but just resting our feet. All around us? White tourists, checking Facebook. We resisted!

One of my numerous conversations, after firmly saying I wasn't going to buy anything, about living in America. I think I'm saying here, "Yes, yes, Barack Obama! We love him where I come from in America."

Women. With babies. Everywhere.

And if not babies, then carrying things - firewood, water, food, baskets. Sometimes TWO buckets of water. And usually a baby, too, but not this time.

The right side of the mission house, where we stayed in Pommern, and the big tree and bench out front:

Me in front of Neema Craft, where the disabled artisans live and work.

The peas! Someone is sitting there, shelling them, at the market. You can spend more and buy them shelled, or spend less and buy them in pods.

Spices at the market.

And on the drive from Dar to Iringa, about 30km of the road arcs through Mikumi National Park. If you stop the car, you have to pay $30 USD per person, as a park visitor.

But if you drive verrrry sloooowly, you don't have to pay - you're just transiting through. We saw herds of giraffe, elephant, impala - and so many baboons! With babies!

July 22: Iringa Town. Buying Supplies.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

How long until there's a hot shower again? I don't know - so I took another one this morning!

After a nice long bitch session with Meggie last night (and a few tears on my part) about the frailties and foibles of our fellow volunteers, and the patterns and issues they "help" bring up in each of us, I find breakfast delightful.

It was because last night and all day the classic middle-aged-women antics were too much to bear. Casually (admittedly unintentional) racist comments, rhetorical questions, questions that get answered but only needed a short moment of thought in order to not be asked at all, and things like, "The trees are so strange!"

To that one I replied with a drawl and a wink, "Only to us," and she nodded slowly with a new awareness.

It's this no-filters pattern of chatter, chatter, chatter (that many older women are afflicted with) that set my teeth on edge after a full day in the car, not to mention more at dinner last night. And I went right into the good ol' patterns of caretaking, question answering, hand holding and shunting any needs I might have in service of others' without thinking. So I get mad at myself, and Meggie is a safe person (one of the safest!) to cry in front of. Then the closing round, last night, of needing to get alcohol for the two weeks - that put me over the edge. It's only now I remember that this was a vacation for a lot of people; in the moment, I felt it degraded the journey, the quest.

But my mantra begins now, July 22. (Thanks for it, Mom!) What's the reward for living a spiritual life?  Having led a spiritual life. It's not a life free of pain, boredom, accidents, disease, frustration, disappointment or self-centered jerks in your face.

So this morning, as if pushed hard enough for now, Meggie and I find ourselves really connecting with Leslie and Jane about their lives - one divorced, then widowed; the other divorced after her husband left her for an older women (by one year), which he let her know about by having the deed to the new home he bought with her delivered to their home. This deep and authentic conversation over fried eggs was what I dearly needed; it is going to fortify me for the day ahead.

We must get permission from the General Secretary of the Diocese before heading to Pommern and residing in their mission house there; he must be a big deal because everyone at the Lutheran Center seems a little nervous about it on our behalf.

We sit in the spare and battered chapel (I wouldn't know it was a chapel unless told) and wait, and Edward asks us to designate one person to express thanks from the group when he finishes addressing us. We don't choose, because he walks in. I'm struck with an intense desire to have a tape recorder; his voice is strange and high-pitched, his glasses yellowed and thick. He tells us the history of Global Volunteers and the Diocese, the AIDS work they've partnered on, and the recent Obama visit. (It was a 2 day party even here, a full day's drive away - no one worked, they all tuned to the nearest possible radio or TV and celebrated countrywide.) He is proud to highlight Tanzania's fight for human rights over the years, from Idi Amin to hosting refugees from Kenya - and prouder still that Obama wouldn't even go to Kenya, right next door.

He talked of how he used to see Dar Es Salaam as this enormous city, with very tall buildings - and then when he went to Minneapolis/St. Paul for the first time, he scoffed at his own memories of Dar as a metropolis! He laughed at, and envied, American timekeeping - or as he called it, time management. "My people are not good at time management; we have so many natural resources but why are we still so poor?" he asked us. He blames time management skills, and by the end of the trip, I'm inclined to believe him. 

His nervous high-pitched laugh mesmerizes me. It punctuates his good English so strangely, I don't think I know how to capture it in writing. We're given his blessing to do good work, but that's not what he highlights. He highlights cultural exchange. He highlights the importance of coming here and seeing how so much of the world lives, with our own eyes. He thanks us for taking the time from our busy American lives - and then tells us how shocked he was when someone in Minneapolis he was with called to profusely apologize for being ten minutes late, stuck in traffic, for a meeting. "We don't apologize for being two hours late in Africa!" This is followed by staccato high-pitched laughter. And then this is followed by, "But, there we are again, with time management skills."

The grounds of the Diocese are the nicest buildings and landscaping I've seen yet:

We walk into Iringa town; it feels like a tiny village, not a city of 200,000. But in a place with no tall buildings, how can you see beyond what is right in front of you? How can you see more than the small hillside you're on? That's a metaphor for Africa right there.


We shop first at Neema Craft, whose handicrafts we've seen in Dar. They claim to be made by disabled Tanzanians - and it appears to be wholly true! The buiding that holds the shop appears to also hold dorms, and we get to peek into a back room where deaf people are signing and sewing, where malformed hands are stringing beads and earrings. I want to buy these pillows but know I have nowhere to put them; I snap a pic instead:

This is a bike that I love outside Neema Craft. I will love a lot of bikes I see; in fact, I think I will love every single bike I see.

The school uniforms we see on the children ARE as cute as they appear in all the photos you've seen online, or in Nat Geo:

Nancy asks if Meggie and I will go to the farmer's market with her to take photos, and I go with the agreement we'll ask each person if we can take pictures first. At the first vendor, we ask, and he says it is OK to photograph the peas only. Nancy frames him into her shot and I think she's misunderstood so I say, "No, of the peas only," and she says, "I know, I am," lying to me, and him. Without a word to Meggie, I bail. If I can only be responsible for myself, the Next Right Thing I can do in this moment is walk away. 

Potatoes and onions at the market's edge: (We'll eat a lot of these.)

Market roof and sign:

Rice. The bigger the grain, the lower the price: 

Dried fish. It smells exactly like a tower of dried fish. Perhaps it was brought in from the Dar fish market? 

We have lunch at the Lutheran Center, a personal pan "pizza". It tastes and feels close to cheese; it's called a "beef" topping but I'm taking bets this is goat meat. Only Edward and our vegetarian volunteer have anything different. Her pizza is topped with bananas, pineapple and chunks of potato (plus "cheese" and tomato sauce). But Edward is eating a whole fried fish with some red sauce and ugali. I watch intensely. I realize I'm staring when he catches me. With apology in his voice he says, "You can only eat it with your hands." I say, "No, no. I'm watching because, I don't want to be rude, and maybe this is a terrible cultural insult, but could I try some?" "Ah, yes!" he says. I carve off a chunk of it, massage it into a ball, push my thumb in for the little dent/scoop, and fill it with Meggie's discarded "beef". There's almost no flavor in the ugali (it is just corn, after all) but - boy. THAT'LL fill your stomach. It's like cement. Oatmeal, only in your dreams!

OK, one obligatory finger-in-camera shot. Behind it is a shoe store in Iringa - note that used shoes are for sale. You get what happens to be in your size. I challenge you to find a personal clothing/goods shop in Iringa with anything new in it, other than bolts of cloth.

And to close... before I left, my pal Lemon, during a banter-filled conversation fueled by my nervousness close to the departure date, hatched the idea, and asked me to keep, a list of "First World Problems in the Third World". (If you're not familiar with the better lists online of first world problems, check a great one out here.) So far, we have (not all of these were thought or spoken by me; they are collected from the group):

• It sure would be nice to have some ice cubes to cool down this safe, sanitized, bottled drinking water I'm enjoying. 
• This watermelon is good, but why not offer a seedless one, eh, country that contains mostly subsistence farmers who need seeds to replant the next crop?

Now, to Pommern in that giant van up there - finally! We've got a ton of bottled water, dried rice, bananas, watermelon, loaves of bread, eggs, coffee, tea, peanut butter... we're ready...

(Like I said earlier, it's chilly up at this elevation! Winter in Tanzania = hoodies. And sunglasses. Oh the gratitude for sunglasses. The African sun can shine.)

July 19/20, right around midnight - Dar Es Salaam

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only.)

Drive from the airport to the hotel... so many people out at 9 PM, running between speeding cars without any streetlights or crossings... the frightening lack of sidewalks... blowing dust everywhere, in our eyes through open car windows... little strip malls that remind me of San Jose, Costa Rica. Motorcycles have a surprisingly high number of helmet wearers - but most of them have no brake lights!

There are Karibu Obama banners on every pole (Welcome, Obama) from his visit two weeks ago. Then my Portland credit union debit cards works at the ATM! Yes! Digital travel alert win. Rebecca said to touch the ground when I land - with my feet or my hands - since it's been so long since I've been connected to the earth. I do so with my hands in sight of the Indian Ocean. I'm amazed the long transit was bearable; I am a little buzzy when I sit still right now to write, outside our hotel on the plaza. It's warm - 80s - but breezy. So many billboards are in English and we pass a huge mosque of praying faithful; it's Ramadan.

I have been glad about twenty times already that I chopped my hair off.

Meggie and I spent a lot of time observing a couple with two young kids on the plane. Incredible teamwork. I commented to her (the mom) on it when deplaning and they both sort of smiled, flustered, but at Customs we were standing by each other again, and she told us how much it meant to her to hear that, and it made her feel they were doing something right.

Waiting for my bag to come out on the carousel, I gasp. I left my beloved pink hoodie on the plane! I have no choice and no language; I rapidly accept losing it - only to glance over at a man walking by, who has it over his arm! I get it back from the older man, shuffling through the baggage claim, headed for Lost + Found.

Note from Future Me: This pink hoodie will be highly valued, I'll come to find out, as it will be much, much colder than anyone expected once we get to the village! 

This reminds me of the iPhone back at O'Hare in Chicago... I was sitting at a charging station and having my oatmeal, when a woman next to me continued to unpack her bag, increasingly frantic. She mutters that she can't find her phone. Digs more. Realizes she left it at the Starbucks and asks her kid to watch the luggage - aggressively asks - and goes over to the kiosk. She comes back and says to her kid, her neighbor at the charging station, and anyone in earshot, "Wow, the employee said it was not there, she was sorry. She was totally serious and then a customer in line spotted it on the counter! Tucked away! She asked about it and I got it back! What a sneak! I almost didn't! Can you believe that?" (Actually, I can.)

So there's a moment from hours ago to contrast how another person's possessions are treated in the U.S. and here. And I know that it can, and will, go the other way in a heartbeat. Because what does an old man need a hot pink hoodie for? An iPhone on the other hand would probably be welcome.

However, it is still my memory of welcome (karibu!) to Tanzania.

-- -- --

Two photos below of the view from our hotel room door, toward the ocean and toward the lobby. 

It's hot, humid, and smells of disinfectant mop water. We have air conditioning and a hot shower here. The hard and squeaky double bed was a welcome sight to us both! So happy to share it, and to dig out our toothpaste... but NO brushing with tap water we decided. 

Time to take our malaria pills on the new time zone; mine at night and hers in the morning. 

It's a nice hotel by Dar standards; the Western toilets flush decently if not perfectly, and there is slow wi-fi to use. It's in a very safe little public compound with shops, a grocery store, a restaurant, an ice cream parlor. We find out later that this was the first transition point to the village life we'd be in. The first night, we paid for our room and crashed into a bizarre, jet-lagged sleep. 

We awoke at 7 AM to construction outside the room; the second night was officially part of the Global Volunteers program, when all our food/water/lodging/transport was covered by the program fee.

Where the rubber meets the road.

This is one of my favorite phrases lately. Working for the government, I have daily insight after daily insight into the places that policy comes crashing into peoples' real lives. Where a theoretical piece of legislation runs up against common... or not-so-common... sense. For example, you need to know your parents' names to get a reissued copy of your birth certificate. Makes sense. No problem. Unless you don't know your parents' names since you were adopted informally many, many, many decades ago. (Informally means there is no registered paperwork, as it was done during the Depression, possibly through a church group or anonymous agreement.) Think this can't happen? Spend a day at my new desk! And track down paperwork that requires "common sense" knowledge, like your parents' full names.

Anyhow, I am not inviting complaints about President Obama when I say that yes, I realize he has not done everything that progressives desire. I do know this. (Tho a side note... who on earth does NOT want to be progressive? Who wants to be regressive? How could this be a point of pride?!) Complaints about the Prez aside, he did just mandate visitation rights to gay and lesbian partners in all hospitals that receive Medicare/Medicaid funding across the country, and I gotta say... THIS is the joy of knowing where the rubber meets the road. This is where a real neighbor that you know and love has not been able to hold the hand of their lifetime soulmate because of discrimination. And now it's going to stop, and a sick person can get comfort and love.

How's that for a happy Friday? Yes, we can!

A Needed Diversion.

I am deeply interested in politics and greater social forces, big ideas and consciousness-raising. I am. But sometimes you just need to read a little news that is hardly news, and the day before Thanksgiving is that day.

So this article about last night's first Obama administration State Dinner... ahhhh, that's the ticket.

Michelle Obama selected hydrangeas, sweet peas and roses for the centerpieces!? I knew we were kindred spirits! (That was what my wedding bouquet was comprised of.) They served food from their garden, and Jhumpa Lahiri was a guest?! I want to corner her and make her tell me a story over White House eggplant!

Plus a gold gown on the First Lady? Just perfect. And now, on with your day before a four-day weekend.