Finally Following Up

Well, I’ve been home for two months now and there are a few things I am sure of:

1. I love being home, but I ain’t no homebody,

2. God is so sufficient,

3. and getting a summer job in Spokane kinda blows.

1. Going from London Heathrow and Seatac to Spokane made the Spokane airport seem really small. So after being greeted by my family with flowers and milk (Yes, a carton of milk) and Oreos, we were out the door in no time and suddenly, after months away from it, I was driving back through Spokane to my little blue house in Newman Lake.  Driving down the freeway, overlooking the old downtown buildings, the feeling was surreal… almost as if I had never left. I couldn’t believe I was home.

I didn’t know I’d be so happy to be home. My roommates face was priceless when I walked into her room the day I visited Whitworth again. My first weekend back consisted of reuniting with family, church and school, Whitworth graduation and my sister’s last high school track meet. The next few weeks consisted of the celebration of mine and my mom’s birthdays and Kelsey’s high school graduation. Busy, busy, busy.

I still have tons of pictures to be shared and it will probably take me a year to get all my stories out. But man, I’m glad to be back. To be independent again. To drive my own car. See all the faces of the beautiful people in my life. Glad to be in a familiar place again. I miss Africa, I miss it a lot. And I don’t plan on sticking around here forever. No sir, I want to see the world. But for now, I’m very content to be back in my little life in Spokane, Washington.



Some kiddos from a Masai village



2. If you’ve ever been exposed to things other than what you’re used to, you know how it can challenge your norms, beliefs, lifestyle, etc. That’s something I expected to happen to me when I went to Africa, seeing how even going to college exposed me to things and challenged me.

I’ll admit that doubt, uncertainty and dullness rose up in my life, mainly my faith.

As the trip went along, the Bible became dull and invalid. God, who at the beginning of the trip seemed so great because he was so big, now seemed too big, too big to even be my own personal God. People around me kept saying “what is truth?!” My mind couldn’t comprehend how God could be my God, yet stretch himself so far as to be the God of all the other people in the world. And let’s not even get into other religions, where to find truth and who goes to Heaven. Shoot.

It might seem like this would drive me crazy and send me over the edge, but somehow I stayed calm. Well, I know how. God- the same God in whom I wasn’t so sure of. Oh his grace…

And he came through. In the last month in Dar es Salaam, my roommate and I were watching The Book of Eli. If you haven’t seen it, I’m about to ruin the end for you so, uh, sorry. But when Denzel began reciting Genesis 1:1, something inside me moved (my spirit) and something else said “if you want to know this book, you should probably start from the beginning” (that would have been the Holy Spirit). I don’t think I’ve ever had that quick of a response to something, but I went right into my room and began to read, even before the movie had finished. And behold, even in the first few chapters I was getting new insight, questions were being answered and the Book was alive again.

That was just the beginning of a series of ways God would reassure himself to me with new depth. Things that will have their own blogs, so this one doesn't go on forever. But God's faithfulness has been so good.

3. Okay, getting a job doesn’t blow. But, it’s quite difficult. So what’s up now? Well, I’m just livin’ it up this summer. At this point I’m done job searching and am okay with it. I’m finding small jobs here and there to make money for the summer and am feeling rather grateful for the time it's giving me to catch up on my relationships, read, work out, go to summer camp, etc.

Don’t you worry though; the thing is that I have a job already lined up this fall, in a month actually. I’m going to be a 2^nd year resident assistant at Whitworth. Living up my senior year in the all-freshman dorm where I’ve already lived two of my 2 ½ years on campus. I am so looking forward to it though. My team is 100% new, so a grand adventure awaits.

After that, of course, I will have my whole life planned out and ready to go because that’s what happens to all college seniors… right.

Rain falling in the Ngorongoro Crater

It may be a surprise to some when I say that I’m not sold on Africa. “Watch out, you’ll leave your heart there!” Not so much, but it now is a solid piece of my life experience. I now feel more confident in the world. I know I can handle uncomfortable situations and new places now. God has proven himself to me. And heck, I have family in Africa now.

 

I thank every person who supported me in everyway. I praise Him for providing, for the things I learned and for what the future holds.

How about a D-?

Because I should get an F for updates this month. So, first off, I apologize. I haven't had a single one this month! I attempted to draft one recapping my teaching experience and my last days with my family in Arusha. And talking about my amazing Spring Break in the Serengeti, Ngorongoro, Manyara and Tarangire National Park and all the breath taking animals and scenery. And updating you about the ins and outs of life in Dar. But, when I should have so much to say, I have close to nothing. And I have close to nothing because I have so much. Blek, hate when that happens.

I haven't really been able to gather all of my thoughts enough this month. The fact that this experience is almost over is pretty overwhelming. Only a few days now. But, I think it's better if I get something out, so you all know I'm still alive and well. So, Dar is different from anywhere we've been. It's huge. Not necessarily in area, but in mass. Take away the street venders, food shacks, crazy driving and the knowledge that you're in Africa, and you might think it's a modern-day city. Well, because it is, it's quite modern. Huge hotels and office towers shoot up in the sky (the fact that they can be built in a few months says something about the care put into them though). The dress is more modern. The roads are PAVED. There are actual street lights and maybe a Subway.. (which I have not eaten at). And pretty western bakeries. Rather than a large tourist city it's a business and education city, so there are actually hardly any tourists and attractions, making it a little difficult to do anything but walk around the streets.

So that we have. We've walked all over finding things that we aren't always able to find again because its easy to get lost. But everything leads back to the main road so it's easy to find our way back too. I'm living with a man and his wife in their small but adorable apartment walking distance from where we're holding class and from the city. Tinno is his name and he studied in America for 8 years before Clintons time. Since he was there before Clinton, we were quizzled by the portrait of Bill hanging on their wall.
"Tinno," we asked, "why do you have Bill on your wall? Do you just like him?"
"Oh, oh yes," he said, "I am a democrat." And he walked into our room to spray the bug spray for the night.
So he is quite americanized. We have a TV with movie channels and news. Two things I haven't had. Because its just him and his wife, Feroza, my roommate Becca and I have had alot of freedom to come and go and feel free in the house. Their daughter is 20 and lives at her university during the week. We share the room with her on the weekends.

School has been our focus again this month, after our two months of swahili focus, internships and spring break. We got back into the swing of meeting every day, hearing lectures, reading text books and such. I was reading my roommates blog (from America) a few days ago and she mentioned having to do a report on Muslims and technology. I thought, "How the heck is she going to do that while she's in America!" (thinking about all the Muslims we've met here and our direct interaction). Well, of course she'll do research and all the same stuff we've always done. But, it made me realize that being IN what I'm learning about has been key to learning so much. Our home stays have been our number one educators. Our research has been interviews with people on the streets. Our observations have been direct! The value of traveling to study is so great. And I've been blessed to experience it.
We've had two professors from the University of Dar es Salaam as teachers this month and have visited the two major political parties and the two major universities. Needless to say, we've had some great field trips.

So, in the next 48 hours I will write one more small paper about religion, complete my take home final, find the tea and coffee I've been looking for, PACK and make no-bake cookies for my host family.

And so, with my internet time running out, I must say goodbye for the last in from Tanzania. I promise some better updates upon my return.
Much love and thanks to my family and friends.

See you soon all.
  

It's on the side of the road

Death is. And it looks like this: A crowd of people, pieces of a brushed helmet, a mangled piece of metal, and a pool of blood under it. We’ve heard of stories and have been luchy to witness only the simplest of accidents. But this one’s not so simple.

As we drove by, the crowed was slowing down the cars. The motor bike hadn’t been touched yet.

“They’re getting the remains of his body,” Baba says, “Amekufa.” He has died.

I guess I was fortunate to see only the large blood pool, and not the man himself. But I know, that night, someone had the job of telling his wife, children, brother, mother, that he was no longer with them. Someone is his wife, his child, his sister, his father. And he is no longer with them.

“Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently. Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.”

That’s an interesting quote from Morrie Schwartz, a man who was dying. I’m reading a book about him, called Tuesdays with Morrie, by one of his former college students, Mitch Albom. Morrie was dying of ALS but his attitude was positive. His life had been full of people, love and relationship and rather than pitying himself he filled his life with more of this as much as he could in the last months of his life. The book is all the things he taught Mitch in the last months of his life, when they met every Tuesday to talk.

Later the author asks the old decaying man, “Why do people always say, ‘Oh, if I were young again.’?”

Morrie replied, “You know what that reflects? Unsatisfied lives. Unfulfilled lives. Lives that haven’t found meaning because if you've found meaning in your life you don’t want to go back. You want to go forward. You want to see more, do more.”

That, to me, is another form of death. What death looks like. Unfulfilled life. It looks like this: the kid who feels empty for lack of love from their parents; the athlete punished for failure; a kid who can’t find the means to success, according to others; a child stripped of her identity and security through sex slavery; a widow; a lost child; that girl called a bitch or skank but all she really needs is hope. Living forms of death. And it’s not on the side of the road but next door, in the next room, in  the next seat. Maybe in front of this screen. 

I praise God for the life he’s given me. That I’ve been graced to know it, that it found me, that I’ve learned to search for it. That I’ve been physically protected, but that my emotions and heart are also in strong hands. 

And it’s not like they’ve just always been there. Oh no, no, they too were on the side of the road. I picked them up, broken and bleeding, and let them go to God’s hands, which, to my surprise then, pieced them back together gently, over time, and completely. I escaped death. Maybe even physically, had it lasted long enough.

Life in Jesus. That’s what I’ve found. What it’s given me is what Morrie talked about. Fulfillment. Excitement to go on in life, thankful for every day I have. Especially after seeing the bike accident. I pray for the drivers family and friends. Again, I thank God for my life and health. Physically- because I take that for granted way too much- and emotionally and spiritually- because I don’t deserve what I’ve been given. God can't help but pour out though. Morrie understood how important people are. How important finding peace is and how available it is.

On the bus to school in the morning, instead of feeling tired and dreaming about what I’m going to do when I get back home, I’m working on acknowledging the things I love about this place. This place where I live and where I’m at personally in my life. And I find the potential benefits in my challenges, and I thank God for all of it. 

“Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is your victory?

O death, where is your sting?

For sin is the sting that results in death, and the law gives sin it’s power. But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

1 Corinthians 15:54b-56

Watch Your Language. And other things.

They call it a language barrier. It makes me think of a wall. But I’m noticing holes in the wall that I can look through. Not only am I learning Swahili itself, but ways to get around that barrier as well, i.e. humor, gestures, openness, love. I’m learning how I can use their use of English to help my Swahili, too.

For example: whenever someone is leaving me quickly they say to me, “I am coming!” this bugs the heck out of me because, in my semi-practical mind, I think, “What the heck no you’re not!” as they run away. From it, though, I know that if I am leaving and coming right back to someone, instead of saying Nitarudi which is like saying “I’m coming back” in English, I should say Ninakuja, “I am coming.” I can’t just translate language, I have to translate culture too. So, even though it drives me crazy, I understand that to them it actually makes perfect sense. And instead of saying “I’m going to get my bag,” in Swahili, I will say “I’m going to take my bag” because they use the word chukuwa not pata. Being the outside culture, we of course have many moments when we mess things up. Culturally: not using the respectful form of “what” when we’re called. Language…ly (is that a word?): the other day I told our house guard that my dad had 20 children. I was meaning to clarify that his dad had 20 children. But, I finally got someone else to say something we could all laugh at. My sister, Lucy, was joking about Krista and I having our house brothers as boyfriends (she’s 16). But, when she pointed to Liza, our guard, I said, "Yours??" She nodded her head and happily said yes. We burst up laughing. She was pretty defensive and embarrassed when someone explained it to her.

Last week all of the house parents of us Whitworth students planned a surprise lunch. Took us two hours away to the base of Mt. Killimanjaro. We all thought we were going to town. But, while there, a baby went to the bathroom on a lady, later I found out it wasn’t even her baby. But, back home, my nine-year-old sister says, “Madam Ashley, do you remember when that baby polluted on that lady??” and laughed her head off. I guess if I want to say the “urinated” I should look up the word for “polluted.” Jamba, which means to fart, she described as, “when you pollute the air.” We explained the many ways to say it in America. Pass gas, cut the cheese, farting, of course. Yes, we’re a close family, even despite language barriers, thanks to language helpers.

Because we are so close to these people, this family, this week is more bitter than sweet. Yes, I’m excited about our Spring Break trip to the game parks and the new adventure coming in Dar-es-Salaam. But I’m not excited to leave this family. I’ve reached the point where I can tell them if I don’t like something and not feel uncomfortable about it. Where I can get the coffee and sugar out myself. Where I can wash my clothes without their help. I’ve reached the point where I’m comfortably at home. For goodness sakes, we’ve talked about farting. There’s no going back after that. (So I guess you’re all my best friends now.) My experience with the home-stay is incomparable.  It’s helped my language, my understanding. It’s given Africans and name and face, from Zanzibar it’s given Muslims a name and face. Faces and names close to my heart. I know that in Dar there will again be awkwardness and uncertainty, but I feel like I will be able to handle it better.

It’s helped me be able to think of all people around the world in a personal way. Instead of just being beings in other places, they are personalities, stories, likes and dislikes. They have senses of humor. Boy, do they have senses of humor. Before coming here I wondered if their humor would be anything like mine. And, if you know me, it’s pretty strange. But guess what I found, more of me! My house sister, Lucy, and I greet each other in as low of voices as possible. Leticia walks around repeating words in strange voices. We taught Liza the word puppy and now at night we hear him saying, “puppy, puppy, puppy” in a high pitch voice to the new mbwa mdogo, little dog. I, of course, am obsessed with the puppy, but I cant show it too much affection because, in reality, it’s only a dot. The only one with a name out of the three now. Its name is Puppy.

I could tell you so much about each person. My four brothers, four sisters and Mama and Baba. A 2 year-old, 9 year-old, 16 year-old, three 21 year-olds and a 24 year-old. Fredi, who is 21, surprises us with his humor. The power went out the other night again so Krista and I took our flashlights out of our rooms to help. We decided to wait in the dark in the living room rather than our bedroom. To entertain ourselves, we began “singing,” true singing requires talent. After the lights came back on, Fredi came in and looked at us like we were freaks. Standing in front of us he raised his hands up, palms facing us, and said, “Start.”

Start what?

“Singing. I am the conductor.” And he continued to mimic the movements of a person who actually has control of their choir. It reminded me of the time he came into the house, Krista and I were reading on the couch. He stood in front of us, poised to do, something.

“Today,” he began, “I am the preacher.”

Okay…

Then he rambled on about something that truly only God knows. Then he looked at me, looked at Krista, looked back at me. His hands were out as if a large ball was going to be thrown to him and he smiled like he knew he was going to catch it.

Umm.. “Ndio!” (yes) I said.

He closed his book and happily strutted to his room. We have no idea what happened. Sometimes Fredi is just, Fredi.

Judy’s always helping us translate things. Alfonzi is always getting in trouble then running to another adult in the house to cherish him. That baby is always so wronged. Esta is our favorite to talk to, even though she knows close to no English. She teachers us to cook, clean, and she just likes to be with us. Fortu works and asks what gifts we’re going to give him. He is a kind man. Mama works long days as a journalist. She comes and checks on us if we’re not feeling well. And when Baba is going on a rant before prayer and its late, she’ll kneel down to pray in the middle of his talking as if to say “I’m tired, stop talking now.” Baba’s nightly talks vary from being funny to serious to simple, like who is going to cook the next day. But, because he is so animated, the family normally ends up laughing at him, even when his face is completely straight and serious. Him and his swimming trunks, not a man to be reckoned with. Even though the traffic is crazy here, and our Baba is a speeder and weaver (I’m sure my mom is happy to hear that) I feel safe in his car. His ambition in life shows in his driving, and I appreciate that. And I think it’s fun.

I think that’s a snippet of everyone. See, they’re real people. The way they’ve taken Krista and I in is beyond me. It makes me want to open my house and life up to students of the world when I am older and able to. Nice thing, I’d have the understanding of what they’re going through.

They keep asking when we’re going to come back, why we have to go. I’m with a group, I tell them. My family is in America. I wish I could tell them I will be back in a few months. But only God knows. That’s a huge question. When will I be back?  A year? Five? Ten? That’s a depressing thought.

I’m at peace though. The future is exciting. Today I live and interact with the people I meet on the streets. I live with my family. Next week I’ll get a whole lot of pictures of elephants, lions and the like (and finish my policy paper, sometimes I forget I’m actually in school). Next month, I’ll have a new environment to get used to. I’ll finish school, I’ll take my final tests. In two months, I’ll be seeing you all.

I was thinking how I’m going to go from summer to summer, sun to sun. But then reality hit me; it’s Spokane. Who wants to be my plane will be delayed by snow?

Good Morning Teacher

Every time I leave the classroom of 6^th grade Africans I’m teaching, I still can’t believe it. Walking from their tall 4 story concrete building across the gravel courtyard to the “teachers lounge,” my spirit is flying high  and again there is confirmation for my life. The comfort of confirmation and authority as a teacher only lasts that long though, until I enter the teachers’ office, which is just an over taken classroom, on in the long “L” shaped building where the younger kids have class. In this place is where I’ve been having my biggest struggle of the month. I characterize it with these words: trapped, purposeless and humbled. I wrote about it best in my journal the other day.

“…I’d been feeling trapped. As far as I know, it’s a privilege that I have the ability and maybe even the concept of getting away. Desiring a nice walk alone, wanting to drive somewhere alone or find a roof with a light breeze. None of these really available. None something reasonable to these people. And I’ve felt a lack of purpose. On the bus I am the teacher who just sits with the kids. In the class they listen and I speak and am valid, but still don’t have connections with the students. With the teachers I am, there. Where ever I am I don’t understand what’s going on. I sit unknowing almost at all times, unimportant on the outside and confused on the inside. Trapped, purposeless, and humbled. Humbled to lack the feeling of having a place… [But I feel welcomed] by my confidence that I belong here. Here as in this spot on earth at this moment in my life. Not appointed by my educators, internship organizer or the head master, but by the maker of this world and former of the plans for my life. And that’s exactly it; where my purpose and freedom and comfort come from. Where I forget, and leave it. But He doesn’t forget and he stays near me, and reminds me.”

So, this has been the growing experience of the last two weeks. Challenged not just by being in a new culture, but also by lacking my own. Normally I am around fellow students from Whitworth, but we’re split up this month at internships that fit our life goals. Because I’m working in only one class- 6^th grade history- I have a lot of time in the teachers’ lounge/office to either grade or do my own work. The other teachers are kind but a bit hard to connect with. It’s not until tea break or lunch that I meet up with the three other Americans on the campus. But like any good challenge, it leads to growth. Clearly, its reminding me that my purpose and comfort comes first and foremost from the Lord. And, like I said, I cannot believe the situation I am in right now. I guess it never actually clicked that I’d be teaching in Africa. So it still feels unreal, like I need to be pinched. It happened so fast. The plan was to sit in and observe the teacher for the first week. Instead, at the end of the first day I was given the small state issued text book and his own notes to plan the lesson for the next day. And I did. I taught for the first time ever on the face of the earth. I like to say if like that because I am literally across the face of the earth. So, hardly any experience, but plenty of years of observation. Still, I was surprised at how naturally its came and how naturally I began to think of ways to improve. Right now the students are learning about Tanzanian colonization and independence, so so am I, because I’m the one teaching it.

This is how school is structured: the students write out their lesson, copying it from the board. They take it home and study. They come back and the teacher does review on that lesson and the students reply with exactly what they have written down. Knowing the depth and importance of history, I call this memorizing, not learning. I’m really trying to make the think more critically this month, like by asking them indirect questions and working them to find that they know the answer. Organization is also somewhat flawed at the school. Even though there is a chart with the classes and times, its not always followed and sometimes students can be left for hours without a teacher or lesson. It can be because of a lazy teacher, but also maybe someone is sick and there is no one to sub in. At the end of their 7^th grade year all students take a statewide test. I know that many people are against these kinds of tests in America because they don’t fit all the kids needs. And, sticks are capable items for punishment. I understand that a little whack on the toosh will keep a kid in line, but I’ve seen an excessive uses of hands and sticks on a single child. But, despite these things, these students are learning English and getting an education. Since it’s a private school they are also getting food and transportation, something most state schools don’t provide. So a state school student might walk miles and miles to school, receive nothing to keep their minds and bodies going, then trek back to begin work at home. The things we take for granted. I get a ride with my house sister on the bus every morning and evening, to and from school. But, like I said, it’s still unreal that I’m getting to teach, interact and learn with these kids this month. I also have to think about the lives of these teachers: longer commutes, more work at home maybe. I may wish they’d be better educators, but it’s not as easily done as it is in the states.

Things with my host family are going very well still. It’s my favorite place to be, besides when I actually teach. It’s the same family from January and I’m living with the same roommate, Krista. We really feel at home here. We know this is going to be a life-long family. We’re not just working and living with families this month though. For school we’re working on our Core 350 policy papers (anyone from Whitworth understands) and have two books we’re going through. I’m also taking advantage of the beautiful little library at the school full of donated books. I’ve read books to catch me up on my US history- books more interesting that text books- and one about a woman who survived sex slavery in Cambodia. It’s called The Road of Lost Innocence by Somaly Mam and I highly recommend it.

We also have two main adventures this month before spring break. The first happened the first weekend of March. We visited a Maasai village just outside of Longito, very near the Kenyan border, and were able to spend the night there. Our connection was through our very own Moses Pulei (I'm not sure the correct spelling of his name) a professor from Whitworth. He is a Maasai, so before we leave Arusha, he shows up in his traditional red plad Maasai clothing, belt and his knife and stick you never see a Maasai without. This was quite different from the slacks and button up shirt we are used to him wearing. Even more crazy is the reality that  this is normal for him. He grew up like this! With him and the other educated Maasai woman- whose village we were going- and the few in the village that spoke Kiswahili as well, communication wasn't difficult. We spent most of our time with the children- open and willing to teach us their jumping games which used only lines drawn in the dirt. The liked to braid our hair and loved our cameras too. The women there were beautiful. Mostly bald with beads hanging around their necks and pulling down their earlobes. They are supported by a near by guesthouse to provides beads, then sells them and the money goes back to the women. Besides milking the goats and cows when they come home and caring for the kids, this is their other daily activity.

Speaking of goat. In our honor, the village prepared a goat for us. Moses picked it out- who ever gets to see their professor pickout a goat in the middle of a bush village??- it was sufficated, skinned, gutted, cut up, and cooked on sticks over a fire. We watched it all. The goat is sufficated to keep as much blood as they can. Blood of goats and cows is drank like milk. They didn't understand why we didn't like blood or so much fat on our meat. The rolling thunder and rain coming in from Kenya drove us into our truck to eat the meat. The main leader joined us. This old man was so comical, literally strutting his stuff when he showed us how to make a whip. Afterwards he threw it over his shoulder and strutted off, bursting into a laugh before he returned. He has alot to speak of, healthy cows, healthy village, an educated daughter. Not to mention his three wives. He was very honored to have us there.

We left back to the guest house in Longito for dinner and to prepare for the night. We went back in the rain and dark to sleep with the Maasai. We split into two groups so seven of us laid out on some cowhides on the dirt ground of one of the huts. We woke and were given tea and later went back for lunch after church. Many of the kids now attend school and church is becoming more wide spread too. So many times I've heard of "giving them better lives"- Africans and bush people. Yes, things like health and education are important, but I cant imagine putting my western culture on them. The joy in their eyes speaks too loudly. This was one of the most joyful weekends for most of our group. Sleeping in a Maasai village! Unfortunately we didn't know that if we had woken up at 4am we could have seen the elephants, zebras and giraffs that pass through every morning. No big deal.

My health is still good. Only feeling tired from the heat still sometimes. This weekend we are heading to a mountain lodge for a retreat together. I'm looking forward to that. The first week in April we go on our week long safari trip.

Woot. =]

Burr, it's cold here!

I’m sitting in the Arusha Tourist Inn again and it feels like home. We stayed here three times in January and to come back from such a crazy month in Zanizbar is really nice. Today is one that requires a lot of patience. We got in from Zanizbar on Saturday and are starting our internships today. Except not even all of them are set in stone yet. I’m waiting for the woman who runs the school I’m going to be in to come back and get the three of us working there this month. But, because this is Africa when she says “I’ll come to get you” it could be hours. Which it has been hah. Others are off and working though at Compassion International and an organization that helps widows own their land and find jobs. Another one of our girls is going to be working in an juvenile detention center. I’m going to be helping in a 6^th grade history/civics class. Ann Teberg, a Whitworth Ed professor who is helping a lot with our internships and has a school near Arusha, said that she’ll be sure to tell them not to throw us in too quickly. According to her, in the past students have shown up and the teachers of the school give the whole class to them and say “teach.” Ah! I would be incapable of doing that right now! They are convinced that because we are Americans we are automatically better and know how to teach. Crazy. It is true that American taught teachers are better quality, but I’m expecting to learn so much from them. And the students. The most I know about my internship is that I will get to and from it by the bus that my house sister rides. All the teachers take the bus with the kids so I wont be the only adult on it, just the only white girl =]

We’re all very happy to be back in Arusha. Zanizbar was great but so hot that here feels cold and this weekend was the first time in a month that I didn’t feel sticky while putting on my clothes after taking a shower. We’re all also very happy to return to the families we lived with in January. It’s like we get to go home! It’s a really fun feeling to be returning somewhere we’re familiar with. And, we women don’t have to worry so much if our knees flash when the wind blows our kongas or that our shoulders are covered in our homes.

There are a lot of perceptions about women, men and the Muslim culture, like suppression of women through clothing and polygamy and distance between guys and girls. I didn’t know what I all thought about it, but remember hearing once that women feel empowered by wearing their full body dress and rather enjoy it; I’ve kept that in mind ever since I learned it. But, living in Zanzibar gave me a lot of opportunity to learn about this, from both male and female friendships I had.  I became friends with my house mom’s 16-year-old sister and was able to ask her a lot of questions and just hear about her life. My last Sunday there we were at her house for dinner (which means we went around 2:30pm and didn’t get back until after 9pm) and got a chance to really hang out and talk. She took us to see the roof of her house, which over looked a Hindu Cremation sight surrounded by trees where a bunch of guys play soccer and work out. It also gave us a beautiful view of the most gorgeous sunset I’ve ever seen.

Here are some fun things I’ve learned. If a man proposes, a girl cannot refuse her hand. I learned from my roommate that a man can have up to four wives and a wife can have up to one husband. Even if she does not want to, she must marry if her family says she must. But that also creates a security net for an unwanted marriage- the father may say no. But I’m guessing that if it’s a well off man or a close family friend there’s no way out of it. Sukhyrat (Sue-hi-rat), my house mom’s sister (whose name I can pronounce but not spell, so I’m going to call her Sue) says that she isn’t afraid of marrying because she trusts her father’s judgment. Her father, by the way, is like this crazy old Indian guy that always sits on his balcony and never has a shirt on his thin, hunched, aging body. He also loves my roommate and I and has a great sense of humor, so it was fun to be welcomed into his house.

I learned that weddings here are spread over multiple days, which is easily compared to an American wedding process. You have the engagement, bridal shower, maybe a bachelor party, the wedding itself and a reception, maybe more than one reception. But the wedding day is the big, big day. Here, every day is just as done up as the actual wedding day. From the pictures and videos we’ve seen the bride wears multiple dresses, all full of color and amazingly beautiful. The engagement party seems like the actual wedding; the bride is all dressed up and tons of people come for it. This day is meant only for the women though. The days very between preferences but normally there is a time when all the men gather, usually dressed in their long white gowns and hats. The there is the wedding day. On this day the brides face is completely covered. In all the pictures the groom and friends and family around her all smile wide and she is just a covered body. Smiling as well, I’m sure, if she wants to. Then the day after the wedding is another big party; the cake cutting happens here and the bride is exposed like normal. There is normally a bridal breakfast and lunch as well. In all of this there is a time when the in-laws feed and give individual gifts to the bride and groom.

I got a unique chance to experience a wedding while in Zanzibar which also led to the chance to wear legit Indian clothing. We’re not completely sure which day we attended because there were only women, as if the engagement day, but the groom also showed up and there was cake. So, who knows. The room was full of women in their colorful dresses and done up with make-up. For a long time some were just dancing to the singing, drums and tambourines, and we waited for the bride to enter. Finally she came, helped by her sisters and mother (you could tell who was family by who had henna covering their arms). She was beautiful, in her twenties, wearing a white and light blue dress and a stark white veil. I hoped I wouldn’t see what our friends saw at a wedding they went to: a young girl who looked terrified and ready to cry, who hardly looked up. As she entered her head was down and she was expressionless. Drat. This is sad. As I though about it, though, this solemn face with eyes to the ground was pretty normal. I heard of it, saw it on TV and was now seeing it in person. Even the groom had no smiles when he entered, or even as they cut their cake.

Lucky for Sue, who doesn’t want to marry until she’s in her twenties, her father wants his daughters to marry later too, making school a priority (unlike her 17-year-old cousin who married her 32-year-ole cousin in December- and they looked very happy and bright eyed in all of their pictures and videos- and is with child already).

So that we started talking to Sukhyrat about what her plans were. She wants to do cool things. Number 1: she wants to be a diver. Number 2:  she likes to paint and wants to learn hair and make up; being in her last year of school, she reminds me of my own sister. Number 3… Number three is her last choice, but by the way she talks, it’s the only path. Number three consists of waiting until she’s done testing at school to find out what she’s good at and what she can do. We talked to her about what schools she could find and suggested the marine biology university in Stonetown. But its comes down to the fact that diving is for men, thus never something she can do. I was only able to leave her with, “Maybe you’ll be the first.” The hair and make up is a good shot. It would be easy to learn because there are so many of these shops around and it’s a big part of their culture, but she has to approve it through her parents first, and she’s not too optimistic about it. So she’s left with her tests. We tried to brainstorm with her and were able to come up with working in government or international relations because of the three languages she already knows and she’s interested in being a lawyer. There is a promise in her third and only true option, in her eyes, but it was sad to see her so sure that what she really wanted to do was completely unreachable to her. It’s for boys.

So then, speaking of boys. I asked Sue what she thought about girls who didn’t wear their headscarves or who were hanging out with boys. She is dealing with the rebellions of her peers. She is not allowed a cell phone or Facebook because they are an easy way for guys and girls to meet up or date, which is exactly what’s been happening. She’s also dealing with friends who tease her because when they go out and don’t wear their headscarves, but she continues to. Why? She fears sins. It is a sin for every hair that can be seen by a man. That’s a lot. I’m curious about when scarves are worn just halfway on the head and if that counts, or about that moment, when the boys playing soccer could look up and wave to us, but I didn’t say anything. Others heard that the covering of the body had a lot to do with men and their inability to control themselves, so for purity reasons. Funny thing though, if you go to the club at night the same girls that are covered in the day look like their “in a rap video” according to Abbey (a fellow student). We’ve been having good conversations among ourselves about this and if that is right. There is a lot of “Men should control themselves!” and I like to throw out that women shouldn’t flaunt either, its dangerous for both sides. But Sue likes to wear hers regardless of that argument. So, from what I gather, she doesn’t have any guy friends and most who follow their traditions don’t have friends of the opposite sex.

I must say that because of my previous perception that men and women are separate, I got really happy when I would see a group of guys and girls walking together, talking and even pushing each other around. But I’ve hardly seen anything like that. I have seen what Sue was talking about, guys and girls sitting alone together and I wonder who knows about it, and who doesn’t.

So then there are my relationships with guys here. It’s much different because I am white. As a white woman in Africa I am actually an “honorary man” so, especially in Zanzibar, I was more able to converse with men than the local women can. And, the men are the ones to speak to us. Our male peers are more likely to attempt to spark friendships with us than the women around us. I think that it is intimidating on both sides for the women, Americans and locals, but we really wanted to befriend them. That’s something I still have to figure out how to do. But this is what all of us women on our trip are experiencing: an overwhelming amount of conversation about boyfriends and marriage. If the question, “Are you married?” doesn’t come up in a conversation, it’s successful! My conversation partner through SUZA was a young man finishing up his teaching and history degree (funny because that’s my same major also). It was a great experience because it did help me get used to having local guy friends. But, after a day in his village, asked by all his friends if I was married and even talked to him about marrying him, I broke and allowed myself the security only a lie would bring when two more guys asked if I was married on the bus on my way back home. I said no, because that’s the truth, but at that moment I realized my only true way out of the discomfort and annoyance was to say, “I have a boyfriend.” It was amazing how that toned things down. It’s not that all the men here are out for that, because I also really enjoyed the time I spent with these guys, helping them with English and them helping me with Swahili. I thought about being very honest with him and his friends, saying that for us Americans, it freaks us out when they talk to us about marrying them after two days. But I didn’t explain it to them. In ways, its flattering, mostly its makes for laughable stories, but still, a very interesting experience.

And to clarify, the women here are very strong, especially when they gather together for weddings and such. They are always laughing with each other and enjoying themselves and most run their homes strongly.

Also, as an American, I experienced a sort of pressure to wear a headscarf. There is no obvious or outward pressure, but just a desire to fit in. After the first two weeks I got used to being among them without my head covered. But it was really fun when we did wear headscarves to the wedding and our school graduation. After debriefing in our group we all said we would wear headscarves all the time if we could do it over again. When we did wear them, other women were more likely to talk to us and they loved it, telling us how beautiful we were =] They are such fun women!

So that was a lot of fun to be a part of and learn from. As a women, I loved trying on their dress and felt very beautiful in it. But, if I lived in Zanzibar, what would bother me the most is the restraint it has on physical activity. The physical activity pulls on me there. If I was a girl living in Zanzibar, I would not be able to join the boys jumping off the stonewall into the water in the afternoon. I would not be able to join my guy friends in a fun game of soccer. I would not be able to run properly because my buibui would be in my way. I could join the girls’ one soccer field that we spotted, or use the water to be active, but I saw No girls swimming. Of course, men have their requirements too, wearing their sacred dress on Fridays because that’s the Holy Day. But the freedom is clearly greater for them.

It’s all very interesting and can spark really great conversations and debates, but I’m so glad to be just learning so much right now.

I’m still in the hotel. Some people have already come back from their internships with news like, “They didn’t know who we were or why we were there,” and, “We still don’t know if we can work there tomorrow.” Hah, TIA! I believe that our professors here are going to be able to work everything out. But, like I said, today, and maybe the next few, will require a lot of patience. Just the African experience =]

In the future:

This coming weekend will be in a Maasai village and we’ve all opted to take the chance to sleep with them and their goats.

In two weekends we are taking a retreat to the Mountain View Lodge that is attached to the side of a mountain.

Our spring break is all planned out too. We will see four game parks in 7-8 days and be staying in Serena Hotels, which are very nice. The Serengeti is one of our stops and now is the best time for elephants and lions. Very much looking forward to that.

Prayer requests:

*Smooth going with our internships. That we would all benefit a huge load from them and make amazing connections.

*That with lack of internet and communication, those of us needing to schedule for classes for next year will be able to get everything we need and on time. That all of our credits earned here would transfer back smoothly as well. 

*Continual health and safety.

*Now that we aren’t actually in school for Swahili, that we would still grow in vocabulary and ability with our host homes and internships.

Praises too:

I passed my Swahili test with an 87, which will go back to the states as an A!

Still safe, still healthy, still growing and no where close to being done.

A chat with my family on Skype was very uplifting the other day. I miss my friends and family dearly. I'm realizing more and more, though, that I don't miss the noise of American society and media and am not looking forward to returning to that. 

I want to welcome any questions too. Comment if you have any!

Tutaonana marafiki yangu 

See you later my friends

Sounds and smells, and honor and dedication.

There are some wonderful smells here in Zanzibar. We're close to the ocean so there is that soothing ocean smell and sound. The cooking tastes and smells lovely. Sometimes we know if pilou is being cooked near by or if someone just made fresh bread. Zanzibar is the spice center, so we’ve enjoyed smelling fresh as fresh gets spices from a spice farm we visited. Cloves and ginger and allspice and nutmeg. They make natural lotions and soaps our of these and cocoa and lemon grass. And perfumes; the Ylanglang (lang-lang) tree is also called Channel 5. We’ve smelt the incents of Catholic Mass and the smoke that lingered in the room of a wedding we went to.
And then there are the other smells. Like the scent of the unfamiliar soap used to clean our clothes. Not bad, just unfamiliar. But often there is a strong smell of garbage, naturally, from the piles we walk by to get to school. Some of them are near dumpsters, others just on the side of the street. And you know when they’ve become too full because the next day that spot is black from being burned. So there’s the garbage, mixed with some sort of sharp sour smell, like when there is ketchup left in the trash. And other times there are wafts of poop when we walk through the neighborhood streets. Sometimes my bath water has a hint of fish smell to it as well, making me wonder how clean I’m getting. But its clear, cool and running, so I fell refreshed. Then there is my own sweat. I’m just going to be honest, okay, because TIA. We don’t always smell 100% nice. Who am I trying to impress though?
The door next to ours in the apartment complex it a place where Muslim children go called “tuition.” We hear them singing almost nightly. As Ryan pointed our at mass last week, “why do African voices always sound so good?” it reminds me of my family singing in Arusha, where I’ll be back to next week. Below our window the road provides us with plenty to hear. Cars driving by and the high zipping of motorcycles speeding unregulated it seems, normally late at night. I’ve seen two café racers, for those who know of my slight obsession. The sound of motors coming close, reaching their peak and then drifting away is actually pretty relaxing. If there is ever any silence on the road the voices of men still come through louder than our ceiling fan (also a soothing noise. We hear the young men across the street where they sit on their bikes outside one of the lil’ dukas (shops). These are scattered around town, selling food, toothpaste, air time and powdered milk. Voices rise up to greet each other or yell playful jests. We hear laughing a lot and sometimes kids and women’s voices. We hear a lot of “We!” (WHEY) which is short for “wewe,” meaning “you.” Get’s peoples attention. Things bang and break, like wood carts being dropped or bottles being ran over in the street. Horns warm people of the approaching vehicle. A few people are probably checking their mufflers after the loud exploding noises we’ve heard also. As the guys hang out at the duka, popular music plays and fills our room when the prayers from the near by mosque aren’t. I’m amazed at how much I can visualize of what’s going on outside just from what I hear.
I’ve fallen into the latest fad here among the Whitworth group though: The Hunger Games. Kate brought the first book and went into such a fuss about it when she found our Krista shared the same love for them, that she and Ryan bought the second and third books before leaving the Seattle airport. The series is snaking its way through our group. It is a nice get away for my senses. I read the first book in one weekend, which is rare for me. I haven’t read any book at that pace besides Heaven is for Real and The Circle Trilogy. Shout out Danny Gubitz! I didn’t bring any recreational books of my own because my plan was to only have my Bible with me. That’s where the faith comes in.
I’ve been at the same church since 1997, almost 15 years. I’ve had no reason to leave, it’s my home. Now I’m four months away from it. This is giving me ample time to see other denominations more closely, complete with special African bonus. My third Sunday here I went to a Calvary Chapel church which is more similar to my home church than the others and I’d like to go back when I return to Arusha. I’ve been to two very different Catholic services and an Anglican one. And, of course, I’m exposed to the 99% Muslims here. What I’ve been exposed to has made me reflect on my own personal honor and dedication to the Lord. (Nothing to do with my actual church. Note, I’m not comparing churches here, totally personal faith).

The catholic service is very scripted, more than I’m used to. As I watched and attempted to copy the guys in front of me and listen for the que, I finally saw beyond the rituals. Like kneeling next to the pew before sitting, or before entering or leaving the alter. Or dipping your fingers in the holy water before entering the sanctuary. I saw the honor behind all of it. Honoring the house with cleansing, honoring God’s alter by bowing, honoring the house of God so fervently. Coming to the Lord to be cleansed first then to ask for his blessing. I though about how often I jump into desperate, or even simple, prayers before saying, “Lord, thank you and forgive me, making me clean as I come to you.” I know that these are actions and that any religion can have things that become habitual, but God is using them to examine my heart. And I really enjoyed the Catholic rituals! Seeing the heart I was meant to have behind it.

I even started thinking about the structured dress of the bishop, the helper people (I’m so formal with my titles) and the one nun I saw. So clean cut and pure, white with a light blue head dress. A symbol of how anyone would want to present themselves before the Lord. And then it got really personal. Why do I wear my best dress on Sundays? Surely to show the Lord my great ability to produce new outfits. No, to look good! My Sunday attire, I have realized, always reflects back to me. How selfish. Am I going to start dressing like a nun? No. I’m also a practical thinker. But this was a personal heart check that God used from my experience at Mass, and it was good.

Most people know about the Muslim dedication to pray five times a day. Our religion professor in Arusha said an Indian student once told one of his Christian students “you only pray once a week!” The student rightly tried to correct his peer, saying he prayed daily, even multiple times a day, but it wasn’t enough for the Muslim student. Examining me, I think myself dedicated. But the Muslims here have really taught me something. I praise myself for the prayers I throw up lying in bed at night, and the little comments I make throughout the day. While these men, and women, make their way, multiple times a day, to sit facedown to Allah, God? Allah? It’s the same to them. How can I praise myself when I hardly give a sacrifice? And it’s so dumb of me too! To not spend time with Jesus, because its benefits me as well. It’s dedication and honor to my God, and it’s salvation and refreshment love that I so need. To not dedicate quality time to the Lord is spiritual suicide. And it’s my choice. I was hoping to become better at spending time with God, praying and reading my Bible, here in Africa, but it hasn’t actually happened until the last week and a half, after finally having these exposures and revelations.

So, while none of this has gotten into theological doctrine on faith, like being exposed to other religions often does, I’m glad because I don’t want to open that can of worms right now. God is using it to rework my relationship with him. (So don’t anyone start going at it the faith and works argument, because I’m not arguing nothin’). I’m sure my view will be challenged while I’m here too. But for now, will I bow when I pray? Will I only do it more rituality now? Maybe, probably not. Who knows. I am lead by the Holy Spirit and not worried about my actions, just how they reflect my heart. Because they don’t come from nothing, these rituals and actions. When I lift my arms in worship I do feel more free. When I speak out loud it is more powerful, declaring life, battling death. These things are very real and what I do does matter. My heart and my actions have been examined lately. So examine what you do, and don’t do, and why. How are you feeling lately? Have you spent time with your loving God today?

I do believe that heart leads to actions.

Jesus loved, Jesus acted.

Go love. Go do.