My trip home was smooth once it got started, but it was a bit heartbreaking. Right after I posted last, I went to the Precision Airline Office, you know, just to make sure they hadn’t already canceled my morning flight. Well, guess what? They had. So my options were these:

1. Take a later flight, meaning that I would miss all my other connections and be stranded in Nairobi.

2. Take a night flight and spend the night in Nairobi, meaning that I basically had to go back to the hostel, repack my stuff, and leave right away.

Well, I’ve been there and done the first option, and I wasn’t doing that again, so option number two was really the only thing I could do. So, I hadn’t quite recovered from saying goodbye to my family and to the village when I had to go back and say goodbye to everyone in the program, and the whole country. It was a bit of a dramatic exit, and Liana witnessed a world class tantrum/crying session. Basically, Precision Airlines managed to ruin more than their share of my trip, and I wanted to round up all the Maasai warriors in Lengijave and find the Precision CEO and see what happened when they all got thrown together in a boxing ring.

Sadly, I didn’t have time to realize that dream, because, I had a plane to catch. So, I missed our final dinner (where, oh-so-ironically, Liana and I were jointly rewarded with the “Most Likely to Miss Your Flight” superlative) and our last night out on Arusha Town. Basically, by the time I reached the Kilimanjaro Airport, I was stressed out, upset, and not in the mood to deal with the ticket counter woman when she told me that she needed to confirm that I was actually supposed to be on the flight, and I should wait (indefinitely) by the counter for her supervisor, who at that time was currently enjoying a savory dinner. Well, I’m sorry, and I have restrained from using any bad language for this whole blog, but honestly…fuck that. I basically went off on the lady behind the counter and made a huge scene, causing some Europeans behind me to grumble about American tourists and what not, which just made me even angrier. But, by the time we were done, i had a boarding pass in hand, which was all that mattered at that point.

When our plane took off, I was a mess. Having to say goodbye to everything you love about a whole country is pretty hard to do when you aren’t even prepared for it. And the road home seemed to stretch out forever in front of me. Well, when we got to Nairobi, where I had been promised a hotel, of course no one had any idea who I was or why I thought I should get a hotel. Luckily, I have become a professional at bullying airline staff into doing what they are supposed to do, and after a few long conversations, they agreed to take me and two other passengers to a hotel for the night.

The hotel would have been absolutely hilarious if I’d had more of a heart to enjoy it. It kind of looked like it was supposed to be Las Vegas circa 1974–very glitz-glam-chic. But what it really meant was there were rhinestones and leopard-prints everywhere. But, I did get to take a hot shower and scrub my feet for about thirty minutes, managing to get half or so of the dirt off my feet. I also got to eat from a buffet that served lyonnaisse potatoes (fried potato rounds) among many other delicacies, which suited me just wonderfully.

The other two passengers were a 20-something couple named Diana and Alex, who both worked at the same law firm in New York and had taken off work to hike Kili and do a safari. Basically, they were a saving grace and watched out for me/kept me company. They were both hilarious and I think they thought it was pretty hilarious how I reacted to everything in the hotel after being in the village for so long. Basically, it was very strange to wake up in my dark little village house and go to sleep in a plush, would-be-glam hotel.

They were traveling with me all the way to New York, and the rest of the trip went pretty smoothly. In Amsterdam, I felt like a pauper, because everything was in euros, and therefore incredibly expensive. Alex bought me a five dollar Sprite. The cheapest candy bar I could find was ten dollars. You get the point. And when we got to New York, Alex and Diana wouldn’t let me take the shuttle by myself to get to my hotel, so they took me themselves in a cab before saying goodbye.

I spent a quiet night in the Comfort Inn, and then in the morning caught my flights to Cincinnati and then Greensboro. It was quite the odyssey, and by the time we got home I was tres tired, but happy to see familiar people and places.

It’s weirder than I thought it would be, being back in the States. It seems like there’s a ton of bad news everywhere, and so much has changed in just a couple months (like how in New York all restaurants have to list the calories in everything, so I couldn’t even enjoy my Starbucks in the airport because I had to know just how fattening it really was) that it was a bit jarring. A lot of things don’t really seem to make much sense anymore…like those electronic moving strip things in the airport that you can stand on so you don’t have to walk? What are those about? And the commercials on TV…very strange. I guess you could call it reverse culture shock, but I miss the simplicity of living in the village. I feel a little bit homesick, but also grateful for everything here that I missed.

Well, I wish I had some grand insight to end this whole thing, but I’m not sure I can put into words everything that I feel about the past two months. I think I’ve changed in a lot of ways now that I have had these experiences, and I hope that it’s been fun/entertaining/informative/insert another positive adjective here, for you to read as well. So, asante sana (thank you very much!) for reading along with me, and who knows

…maybe I’ll be having another adventure sooner than you think!

XOXO

A

So, while I have maybe not so much had the typical Tanzanian experience that most people get when they come here, mine has been fulfilling and exhilarating in a different sort of way. Seeing everything come together this week, both with our community days and with hanging out with my homestay family, has been such an incredible experience that I know you want to hear all about it. And if you don’t, it probably means you are a terrible person.

Just kidding! (Kind of.)

So our community days in both wards went very well. We held ours at one of our primary schools and offered testing, pre/post counseling rooms, games, and–the cherry on top–a DJ who played such beloved hits as Cher’s “Life After Love” and, of course, Sandstorm. This, in essence, meant that we also offered a lot of wazungu dancing while the locals gawked and laughed at us. A big hit, I might add.

All in all, we got 104 people tested, most of whom came from my village, which made it pretty successful. A lot of our students got tested, and, while they aren’t much of a risk group, because most of them are too young to be sexually active, it was amazing to see their enthusiasm about it. It was also gratifying to see that they didn’t let fear or stigma get in the way of knowing their status. My mama and baba also got tested, which was one of the most meaningful things that has happened to me here. (Both of them, I’m happy to say, tested negative.)

On Saturday we had our second testing day, this one in the other ward. It also went well, particularly because we set it up at a big market with tons of people. We had a grand total of around 160 tested, and in total, the whole program (including individual village testings) had over 500 people get tested. So, numbers certainly can’t say everything, but it’s nice to have some sort of gauge to our success. These 500 people are only the first step in their communities to breaking down stigma and trying to make healthy life choices. But they are a huge first step, and an incredibly important one. So, I guess, if you want me to get all sentimental, I could say that I’m really grateful to have been a part of that process.

On the home-front, things were surprisingly warm and fuzzy for our last couple of days. I’m pretty sure that our mama was cooking out of spite, because she stopped making those oh-so-good cold potatoes, and picked back up with making ugali and rice. Neither of which, at this point, I ever want to see or hear mentioned again. This is not a joke or an exaggeration. So, our old dinners of a staple food, a vegetale, grease soup, fruit, and cold bread, was replaced with ugali or rice plus bitter spinach. Anyway, it was okay, because my saint of a mother sent three packages (six weeks ago, but who’s counting?) that arrived on Wednesday, and I was kept alive by raisins, teddy grahams, dried pineapple, and pretzels.

Last night though, after our baba, who had forgotten that we were leaving today, (and also coincidentally my name…I’m not even joking) was reminded that it was our last night, we all had some family time. I started to really warm up to Goody, hellish baby though he is, this week, and mama and I laughed together when he ran proudly around the yard, lifting up the wrap around his legs to expose his little you-know-what to the family. I played football with some of the kids in the yard and gave it to them to keep, despite the fact that they kept trying to bring it back to me, and gave out some other little gifts (all courtesy of mom’s miracle packages) to the 384 children in front of the house.

We sat outside with mama while she shucked corn and peeled potatoes, (truly the best meal you could possibly ask for in the village, I swear) playing with Goody and talking with baba, who continued with his favorite past time of asking us questions about Europe, and other white-people-things. Baba, who I only ever see sitting around or chatting, either at home, in the front yard, or at the dukas,  and who tells us everyday that “I go to look for the cows,” is a pretty funny character. But for all that, each day he genuinely seemed to care how we were, and as our time together drew to an end, reminded us that we were always a part of his family. He told us that we were all one family, that he would always love us, and that we were rich people to have each other. He also gave us each beautiful beaded belts as goodbye gifts, which was so unneccessary but so thoughtful.

So, all-in-all, it was much harder to leave the baby that kept me awake every night for a month solid, the mama who seemed to know just what to cook to make me loose my appetite, and the baba whose job I never quite understood. They took wonderful care of us and made me realize that there is more than just the American way of life to keep you happy. I sometimes wondered, when I saw my mama smile or laugh, what she was thinking about. In America, we’re always thinking, always planning, for the next thing. But in the village, each day dawns very much the same, yet  brings its own miracle, its own splendor, and no one wakes up thinking about tomorrow. Only today. I couldn’t imagine living that way before coming here, and now I see that it is simply another way of life.

The trucks came and picked us up this morning, and it was surreal having what might be my last glimpse of what has been my home for so long and yet so little time. We’ve been in Arusha for a few hours, and have a few more before our closing dinner tonight. My flight (if it exists, which is dubious) leaves at 6:00 tomorrow morning, and it is so hard to believe that I will be back in the states in under 48 hours (if everything goes according to plan, which it won’t.) The plan now is to go to the airline office to double check the existence of my flight, which, if you haven’t read the rest of my blog, you might think is a bit over-cautious. It’s not.

So, I will write again when I get back to the states, if that happens, with some last thoughts and insights, because my brain is so frazzled right now trying to digest everything that I’m sure this blog isn’t very good. So…

See you back stateside.

You know what? Let’s start with the positive. Because even thinking about airports right now makes my head start hurting, and literally gives me goosebumps thinking about trying to get home next week.

So, Zanzibar is absolutely gorgey. Like, ten times better than the Mombasa beaches. The sand is perfect and soft and white and the ocean is that shade of aqua marine that basically equates to paradise. Basically, you know how a lot of times you listen to Bob Marley during the winter and pretend it’s summer? Or you listen to him at the pool in the summer and pretend you’re at a beautiful beach somewhere? Well, I had nothing to pretend about. There were huge palm trees everywhere and the water was always shimmery and when the tide went out the beach was covered in beautiful little shells. Of which, I took many. And will proceed to hide from power-tripping U.S. customs officials trying to rain on my parade.

Our resort was interesting. Ciao Marco ended up being a kind of sleezy, middle-aged Italian man who clearly did a lot of LSD back in the day (slash now) and told me when we arrived that he had expected Ali to be a big black man. He had gotten confused because my mom had contacted him and made the reservation, igning her emails with him “Shelley and Ali.” So, he assumed we were a couple. I don’t know where he got the black part from. Anyway, he did not expect to see four girls, and when he saw us, he said “Oh, yes. Deep shit.” He had booked us in a room with one king-sized bed, and ended up charging us an extra $30 a night for his generous addition of bunk beds to our suite.

The resort was a lot of hammocks, tables made out of surf-boards, and very expensive cocktails a la Jimmy Buffet style. And we got yummy breakfasts of fresh local fruits. You don’t know how excited I was to look down at my plate and find a PRICKLY PEAR. Like in the jungle book. (Bear Neccessities anyone?) Who knew those actually existed?? You probably didn’t, because I did not. And I know a lot.

We did a lot of laying on the beach, which was exactly what we all wanted. (Sans the sunburn we are now sporting.) I was happy to find that the dust tan was more easily replaced with a sun tan than I had thought. Plus, I got to rock a sexy giraffe-print one piece, curtesy of Woolworth’s Arusha.

We did do some other, more exciting stuff besides lay around. (Eating was not really one of these activities, because, excluding free breakfast, we were too poor for Zanzibar tourist food.) Susannah and I went snorkeling, which turned out to be more of an adventure than we had bargained for. We were supposed to go with Captain somethingorother, who looks just like all the other guys on the beach trying to sell you snorkeling trips, except he had a monkey.

When it was almost time to go out, he went to ready the boat and I had the honor of babysitting Rasta the little (probably diseased) monkey. He was tres cute and cuddly and fun, but then he jumped on Susannah’s head and started gyrating, and playing with the monkey got old. Rasta and the captain set out with us on the S.S. Hope You Know How to Swim Well Because this Boat Will Probably Sink. Our captain, as it turns out, was the proud owner of a tiny, algae-crusted motor(ish) boat. It was a tad scary once we were about a mile off-shore. To add to the scaryness, the captain seemed to think that he was going to convince one of us to marry him. AKA when he asked for my phone number and I said “maybe later” he said “No. No maybe. I have no wife. I need.” And before we set sail he told Liana that if she wanted to stay in Zanzibar, they could have a child. Yummy.

The snorkeling was good at least. Minus some underwater attempts at hand-holding, awkwardness was kept to a minimum by the fact that you can’t speak with the snorkle-thingy in your mouth. The reef was pretty beautiful, so I would say that all and all it was worth our fifteen dollars.

We were supposed to fly out yesterday evening, so when we couldn’t handle the second-degree burns we were getting anymore, we taxiied into Stonetown, the historic part of Zanzibar Town. It was really quite beautiful, somewhere between a Grecian and Saudi Arabian feel. Lots of narrowy winding streets and old, beautiful architecture on the harbor.

Good thing we liked the town, because our stay was extended. By Tanzania Air. We basically repeated our Mombasa return itenterary, with some improvements. The airline told us that the flight we were supposed to take had technical difficulties and wouldn’t be coming. And what they meant, it became obvious a few minutes later when our plane showed up, was that they had overbooked our flight. And because we were the smallest group, we were the lucky ones chosen to stay behind with a few people from Hong Kong trying to hike Kili.

The good news was that the airline actually put us up in a pretty nice hotel with a great roof-top view and rooms that look like Hogwarts. They said they would foot the bill for everything, so we spared no expenses for dinner. We even got cocktails (which ranged from 8-12 dollars, and which we would never pay for ourselves) which were quite nasty.

The bad news was that when the airline said they would pay for everything, of course they were lying, and we got stuck with the thirty-odd dollar bill for our gross semi-cocktails. We paid half and called it even. The worse news was that the flight that we were booked on this morning did not exist. (Obvi.) And the manager from the previous night gave us the wrong number to call him and was nowhere within bitching distance.

Another flight was leaving for Arusha, and it had room for us or the Hong Kongers. And obviously, we had to let the poor hikers go climb Kili, since their trip had been cut to a fraction of what it had been because of airline trouble, and if they hadn’t gone, they couldn’t have hiked.

Which left us. And somehow, the airline manager asking me to “trust her” was not very helful at that juncture.

So, long story short, we got home a couple of hours ago, and the only really bad thing about our travel trouble is that we have to stay in town tonight instead of going back to our villages. Which is especially bad for me because I have had so many accidents/sicknesses/difficulties which have kept me in town. Basically, someone is trying to tell me that my calling in life is being sick or stuck somewhere than teaching AIDS education. And I’m terrified of the trip home, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Oh, god, please let me get home.

So, for the most part, our weekend was enjoyable, sans having to battle through shitty airports where no one is very helpful for a few days. I even got to eat FALAFEL. So amazing.

We only have a week left here, and this is the week where we tie all the work we’ve been doing together, so it is tres importante. On Friday, my village is hosting a ward-wide community day, where we’ll have free testing in addition to soccer, seminars, and a sweet DJ to draw some crowds. So, we won’t come back into town until Tuesday, and then I fly out (perhaps) early the next morning.

So, after a quick rescue mission involving a package sent weeks ago by my mother that is only now arriving and contains one of my stuffed animals, tomorrow morning it’s back to Lengijave for the home stretch. Obvi., will report back with final juicy details on Tuesday.

Well, anyways, mambo from beautiful Zanzibar!! Not. Sadly for us, our travel bad luck has already begun. Yesterday I got a phone call from Air Tanzania telling me that our flight today to Zanzibar had been canceled and we were rebooked on one that leaves today around 3:30. So, we’re praying that this second flight actually does exist and that we actually do have seats on us. I would say it’s about a 50/50 chance. For regular people. For Liana and I? 30/70. Keep you’re fingers crossed for us. Or send us a private jet to come and get us. Either one works.

Oh, and just a little tidbit that I had forgotten to blog about yesterday. (The day before? No one really counts days here.) I blogged a while ago about Africa Ali, who is always, attractiveness-wise, less than or equal to America Ali who just rolled out of bed. That is to say, being pretty is no longer priority here. In fact even my grandmother calls sometimes to tell me that she tries to imagine me in my long skirts and nice blouses with my unbrushed hair and that the resulting image is “not a pretty picture.” She thinks I look like a Mormon woman coming out of that Texas compound for the first time. This is quite flattering.

Well, anyways, at school on Wednesday, after we had finished playing white-girl-in-the-middle (thank god their balls are only made of plastic bags wrapped around each other) I had a nice chat with the students. They like asking things like “what is your fatha’s name?” and “where you go school?” I think it’s fun for them to practice their English. So, after we had established that my family’s names were Shelley, Myles, and Edward, and that I had no sisters, and that I went to school in California, conversation was dwindling. And then, as I’m about to tell them to go in for class, someone asked, “Are you a boy? or a girl?” And then everyone else nodded and started asking too.

It was a pretty big self confidence booster, let me tell you. Apparently, Africa Ali is more sub-par than previously imagined. At least when my grandmother thinks about me I still have the right gender. I mean, I know our clothes are pretty shapeless, but I thought the full-length skirt, the hair down to my chest, the high-pitched voice that they so dearly love to make fun of, might have tipped them off. Apparently not.

Then again, it’s hard for me to tell a lot if kids are boys or girls because they all have shaved heads to keep away lice. Maybe if I shaved my head they would understand. Thoughts? Comments?

We’re going to try to go find some wazungu food somewhere before (hopefully, please, god, please) being whisked away on our commuter jet to paradisio.

I mean, Mombasa had to have burned up some bad karma. Nothing that bad can happen to us. Right?

Right??

I have logged more clinic hours than anyone else on this trip, and I feel like of the many accomplishments I was hoping to achieve while in Africa, that was not one I was thinking of. But, take what you can get, right? On Sunday evening, I started to get some aches and chills and decided to curl up in my sleeping bag for a while to get warm. I took my temperature just to be safe, and it was a cool 97.2, so I wasn’t worried. Until five minutes later, when it was 101. And then an hour later, when I was dizzy, shaking uncontrollably, and it rose to 103. Please keep in mind, that my temperature is usually a degree or so below most people’s, and so 103 is pretty high. In fact, the highest I can remember having. Ever.

So, it’s kind of scary being in a remote African village which has no clinic, no medical supplies to speak of, when you are sicker than you can ever remember being. And, while, yes, you know it’s probably just the flu, or malaria, words like “sleeping sickness” and “typhoid” and maybe even “ebola” keep running through your head in quick succession. And, to make matters worse, I got sick right before dark, which meant that the trucks couldn’t brave the roads to get me. So I was stuck for the night in the village listening to the dyingish cat mrawling next door and hoping we weren’t going to meet the same fate.

In the morning my fever was down a few notches, and being the oh-so-brave-and-selfless volunteer that I am, went to teach at school in the morning before Steve came to drive me to the clinic. Things were running behind schedule, (what am I talking about…we have no schedules here, let’s not kid ourselves) and so we finally got to the clinic around 1. There were already about a dozen people spilling out of the waiting room, sprawled out on the grass waiting to see the doctor. This is never a good sign. But since I appear at Selian Medical Clinic quite often, I think they gave me a frequent customer perk and let me cut the line a little.

None of this mattered, because the doctor I spoke to was probably the most unhelpful doctor I have seen here yet. In fact, without a doubt the most unhelpful. I tested negative for malaria, which is good I suppose. But here, malaria is not a big deal. You get tested, you take the medicine, it works right away, story over. When they don’t know what’s wrong with you, that’s when it’s scary. So after a few finger pricks and blood tests, when nothing came back, I wasn’t very happy. When my doctor told me what she thought it was, I was a downright unhappy camper.

First of all, let’s get this straight. Any woman who has had a urinary tract infection knows at the first symptom, if not even before, what is coming. And any woman who hasn’t knows by word-of-mouth exactly what they feel like. I think even boys could hazard a guess what some of the signs are. But if not, let me give you a hint: pain while peeing, and frequent peeing are your two biggest tip-offs.

Funny, I thought I had a high fever, dizziness, a sore throat, aching limbs, and a headache. But somehow, amazingly, UTI was the firm diagnosis. And to make matters sillier, the doctor kept telling me that a UTI was a bacterial infection, but not to worry because I had no bacteria. It seems to be the standard back-up line when doctors here don’t know what’s wrong with you. I told her I was skeptical because she had told several of my friends in the program that they had UTIs also, including one boy. “But, boys don’t get UTIs,” she said. “Yes,” I said. “That is the point.” She did not get it.

So that was a waste of time and money, but the good news is that I am feeling better. Because I know I had you worried for a minute there. Don’t lie.

In other news, everything at the homestay is going swimmingly. Mr. Mrawr is having a rough time of things, and I am seriously debating the ethics of sneaking it out of the house and setting it free. Our manic depressive little baby is bawling away as loudly as ever. Kira found poop in our room while I was gone, which was a nice addition. (No, we aren’t talking small rodent poop. We are talking larger mammal excrement here.) She nicely cleaned it up without saying anything to our baba, which I think was a questionable call, but, whatevs. Maybe little baby Goody has an interesting sense of humor.

There’s a new boma being built in the compound for our baba’s oldest son, who is moving back home with his wire, which is tres exciting news in the fam. His son is this very mellow, rasta-esque guy who is always walking somewhere around the village, his dreads in full swing behind him.

As for teaching, I think everything is going really well. We’ve finished our curriculm with both of our schools and have moved on to doing review and teaching life skills with them. Today we had a really fun class doing a big game of jeopardy review with them. We were asking them very hard questions, and they were getting all the answers righ, which was so incredible for us as teachers. (When I say hard, I mean things that most grown Americans couldn’t answer. Not little kid hard. Questions like: name forms of alternative breastfeeding for HIV+ mothers and why they work.) Then after the game, we asked anyone interested in taking a leadership role in starting an HIV education club at their school to stay after class. About eight kids stayed after, which is really great.

I’m also starting to bond with the kids on a personal level. Before class today we talked for a while (or maybe I tried to speak to them in Swahili and they laughed…I don’t remember) and then they invited me to play ball with them. The favored game among the standard 7s is basically a version of monkey-in-the-middle, except there is no way to win if you are in the middle. And they don’t throw the ball over your head, they throw it at you. Hard. If you catch it, good for you. If not, you get hit and they all laugh. But you don’t get to move from the middle.

Guess who got to be in the miiiddllle? It’s a good thing their ball was made of plastic bags. I was thinking about buying a soccer ball for them. No longer.

Despite the fact that I seem to be a walking target for unidentifiable illnesses and travesties here in Africa, I am actually still really enjoying myself, and starting to get a bit sad about leaving. Tanzania is really an amazing country, and for how much I portray all the people I meet here as humorous and silly, Tanzanians are for the most part generous, hard-working, and uncomplaining people who inspire so much faith in humankind. Life here always comes with trials, but that’s not what people here seem to focus on. We Americans could learn a lot from the people here.

My daily routine besides teaching probably doesn’t seem too exciting to most people. And I admit, there is a lot of dust, cornfields, cows, rice, potatoes, and reading involved. But I find that I don’t really mind any of that anymore…it gives me time to examine myself and the place around me in ways that I’ve never had the time or will to do anywhere else. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s just a different way of life.

Each time I leave the house, I wave goodbye to my baba, who waves back and says, “Don’t forget to come home!” And it is a little depressing, because I know that for two weeks I’ll be leaving for the final time. Steve, our managing coordinator, gave us a speech on Sunday (before disease X struck) about how our families will always remember us and how our villages will never be the same for what we have been doing there. It was great motivation to make the most out of teaching for our last few weeks, but I couldn’t help but thinking that my family and my village have changed me more than I could ever hope to change them, and I’m so thankful for that.

Okay, so that was sappy, insightful time. Now, it’s time to go eat dinner (how I’ll miss mama’s cold potatoes) and get ready to go to Zanzibar! If all goes according to plan, our flight should leave at 8 a.m. on Friday morning, and we should be in sunny, sandy Zanzibar until Monday. (Then we go back to the villages Tuesday morning for our final week.) We are staying in bungalows run by an Italian named Marco who ends all his emails with “ciao.”

So, on that note,

ciao!!!

This results in general chaos, claustrophobia, and possible suffocation, because there are bodies piled everywhere. Sometimes they hang out the door or windows. In any case, it means the dala goes about 10 miles an hour, and it takes us about an hour and a half to get to Arusha. Excruciating. Pain. No, they aren’t that bad, especially when you’re a pro and you know the best places to sit to cause minimal injury. And they’re pretty funny to see when you aren’t inside them…most of them are covered with huge bumper stickers that say “Pimp My Ride” or “Jesus is King.” But, it is a little discomforting to feel the floor beneath you buckling under the weight of 25 people who may or may not have showered in the last two weeks.

The culture here is still strange to me at times. On our drive back, I stared out the window at places like the Florida Bar and the Des Moines Inn–neither of which, incidentally, bear much resemblance to their namesakes. Shocker. Then there’s all the little dukas that are named “Rich” this and “Super” that, and you wonder, who are they trying to fool?

I’m starting to understand now though just how strange most Tanzanians’ views of Americans really are. It kind of explains why people gawk at and follow behind us wherever they go and why I can’t get that line “Everywhere I go people stop and they stare” from that very catchy Sugar Ray song out of my head. Sometimes, I want to turn around and say, “Yes, I am still a white girl. Yes, I still live in your village. Yes, you have seen me 2352 times now.” Like yesterday, when I was having a quiet, solitary moment reading Persuasion on a little hill, and a man came up and started making conversation. After we had said the 3 words we could say to each other, I pointed at my book and said “kwa heri!” (goodbye). But apparently, this does not mean goodbye, even though it does. He proceeded to stand literally right over me, staring, for 20 minutes, despite my multiple more “kwa heris.”

Last night, our baba, who prefers to talk to us over the wall that separates our two rooms (they still stay in the house during the day) instead of talking with us face-to-face in the living room, asked us if black people had houses in Europe, or only white people? (He knows we are from America, but always gets confused and asks how things are in Europe.) Did we think that Obama was less clever than other presidents because he was black? Etc. It was an uncomfortable situation.

In class yesterday, one of the kids asked why white people can’t have AIDS? We politely explained that indeed white people are just as likely to get AIDS as anyone else, which was why we had all gotten tested. (We did all get tested this weekend, and it’s something I highly recommend. I was pretty much positive that I didn’t have HIV, but still, getting tested is a somewhat nerve-racking experience that will inspire you to make healthy decisions ever-after.)

So, I guess it isn’t hard to see why wazungu are such an interesting anomaly here, with the amount of misinformation that has been spread, and I hope we are doing some work in the way of correcting these assumptions. It’s somewhat shocking and upsetting to find that so many Tanzanians feel that blacks are inferior to everyone else, and it’s a belief that I want to avoid perpetuating at all costs.

Teaching this week was really amazing. We taught four lessons in the school, like usual. We also did two sub-village teachings and one teaching for a group of pregnant mamas. The sub-village teachings were my favorite. For both of them we hiked about half an hour up into the hills, and we taught right there on the mountain side to between 50 and 70 people. We split the mamas and the babas up, and this week I taught the babas.

They were an interesting group. They opened their session with a musical-sounding prayer, and then proceeded to look exceedingly bored through the whole presentation. A few were quite drunk, and they kept getting up to go pee about 3 feet from me, which was awks. But, at the end of each session, it was clear that they had been paying attention by the questions they were asking. Our second group asked for us to do a condom demo, and I cannot tell you how funny they thought I was when I inserted a female condom (which I myself had never even seen before I entered the program) into a plastic water bottle that represented the female anatomy. But, clearly, the demo was good enough for them, because I received another marriage proposal, this time from an old man who promised me a house on the hillside and 20 cows. Ooher. Sadly, my Tanzanian teaching partner turned him down in Swahili before I had a chance to jump at the invitation. I mean, TWENTY cows? How much better can you get.

Well, besides teaching, life has been full of surprises, as usual. And I know, I have used up my quota for complaining about lack of sleep, but it really is just one thing after the next. Our family now has a kitten. This is not a cute thing. The kitten meows, all day, without stopping to take breaths. Literally, my life soundtrack now consists of “Mraw.Mraw.Mraw.Mraw.Mraaaaoow!” It’s actually very similar to the “howareyouhowareyouhowareyou!!!” that we get from our constant entourage of screaming children.

To be fair to the kitten, it could for sure be the next postercat for PETA. They keep it tied by a thick piece of rope somewhere in one of the rooms we don’t go in. One morning, after a long night of Mraw, I heard a loud thump, and looked up to the rafters only to see what I assumed to be a very large, scary, white rat. I screamed and ducked for cover before realizing that it was our dear friend, Mr. Mraw. This kitten is very small, and clearly very underfed, and consequently very scary looking. It was trapped on the rafters and couldn’t get down (god knows how it got up) until I hoisted up a box and it jumped in. Then, back to kitty jail it went. No one really knows why we keep a cat tied up in our house all day without giving it food, but it has pretty much taken the baby’s place as disturber of the peace.

On Tuesday night, I had finally gotten to sleep despite Mr. Mraw’s nightly lullaby. At about one o’ clock, however, I woke up to the pleasant sounds of dogs barking. Assuming that they would eventually wear themselves out, like all normal dogs do, I put my pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. I don’t know why I ever assume anything here, or why I haven’t figured out that there must be something in the water or the air around my house that gives every living thing in sight a supernatural lung capacity. An hour after I first woke up, the dogs were still going. And an hour after that. Finally, I got up and went outside to see if I could yell at one, or throw a rock, or do something to make them be quiet.

From his tent, Baba must have seen my flashlight, because he said, “Hello?” “Hi, baba,” I said. To which he replied, rather urgently, “You go back in house now. There are hyenas.” Oops. An hour later, the dogs were still going, but in the middle of their barking I heard a high-pitched “eeeeh! eeeeeh!” right outside our window. That’s right, my neighbors are hyenas. And not the fake Lion King Whoopie Goldberg kind either. You know you’re jealous.

However, having hyenas hunting right outside your window is not so convenient when you really need to go to the choo. Which I did. Ah, another night, another dear memory.

Everyday there is a new challenge here, from hyenas to cold waves to racism that goes both ways. And I think I’m dealing with them for the most part in the best way I know how, but it’s relieving to know that after this weekend we have only two weeks left. Eight weeks can be a much longer time than I had imagined before coming here, and every day I mark off my calender I get more anxious to come home.

It’s also exciting to see everything coming together with our program. We have taught and will teach probably around 500 people minimum in our village, and in a place so small, that is a large chunk of the population. Our community/testing day has been set for July 11th, and, because our village government has been so good in getting the people to respond to us, we should have a pretty high turn out. I hope you are all enjoying the heat and sun I’m missing out on! Though next weekend, I will be in Zanzibar (unless our bad travel luck holds out) enjoying the beautiful beach. Keep your fingers crossed!

Oh, and, as a side note, the hostel lost all my underwear when they were doing my laundry. Sweet.

Actually, that’s not really true. Because you know what? A lot of things happen in Africa. We could totally have a Gossip Girl Tanzania, and you would totally watch.

For instance, spotted: a group of wazungu volunteers partying it up last night at Maasai Camp. We went out yesterday to celebrate two volunteers’ birthdays (Susannah Gibbs and Emily Adams for any Claremont folk) at Maasai Camp–the bar/restaurant that turns into a crazy nightclub at about 11. It’s such an experience to be in a club like that–you will never see a more interesting mix of people in your life.

The night started with the my seeing myself in a full length mirror for the first time in many weeks and coming to the shocking realization that after five weeks of being here, my butt has all but disappeared. I know, I never had that J. Lo thing going on, but there used to be something there. Well, all the more determination to eat more while we’re in town.

At Maasai Camp, our evening got of to a goo start when our orientation leader, Karen, arrived with Dr. Bob. Dr. Bob is the orientation leader for the next group of volunteers, who arrived yesterday. He is also a madman. Who wears a feather in his hat.

Anyway, he’s about 60 or so, and teaches at Stanford. Or maybe Harvard…whatever. He doesn’t drink in the states, only when he’s in Tanzania running volunteer programs. Anyway, a few of us decided to join him at Karen’s insistence that it was really a great honor to have a drink with Dr. Bob. So they bought us a round of something called springboks, which are half peppermint schnapps and half the local kind of Kaluah, and which they insisted tasted like thin mints. And really, I swear, I thought I was eating a girl scout cookie.

In any other circumstance, taking a shot (don’t worry family–it was only one, and only about 10% alcohol) with a 60 year old man with a feather on his head would be incredibly creepy, and I would wholeheartedly disapprove. But, really, in Africa…there’s just nothing sketchy about it.

We got a chance to dance a little out on the dance floor. We were in good company–lots of locals, who showed our moves up pretty much immediately, definitely some backpackers on LSD, who made us feel much better about our dancing, a few safari-going families, and assorted others. (Yes, there were a few prostitutes with creepy old white men, and that was not fun to watch.) Everyone in a place like that has such an interesting story, and it’s fun to be in such a random mix.

I got a text on my sweet (not sweet) Tanzanian cell phone around 11:30. It was from one of our teaching partners, who, it appears, has a crush on me. That was awkward, because he knows that I know, and I know that he knows that I know, and so forth. But Africa Ali is just not really feelin’ the romance. (As mom and dad will be happy to know, I’m sure.) I mean, true, I put on a tank top last night and had a little mascara on. But, it’s pretty hard to feel like a girl in this situation, and don’t we all have to deal with enough awkward romantic/semi-romantic/flirtatious situations at Pomona? I kind of thought Africa would be an escape, but with random old men proposing every day and teaching partners (who are genuinely sweet and nice guys) trying to woo you all the time, it’s just more awkward than ever before.

Anyways, I thought it best just to ignore the text for the time being and enjoy my night dancing. The night finished out with our program manager, Steve, who saved Liana and I from having a total breakdown in Mombasa, busting out in some salsa moves. (Keep in mind, this is the man, who, while driving a sobbing Ali to the clinic after the head trauma incident, tried to calm me down by asking “So, what’s your favorite color?” Also, you should know, that everyone who works at SIC is just a little bit awkward. But in a good way. Mostly.) Liana and I are both pretty much in love with Steve (I told you…Tanzania is SO juicy) so we were very excited.

By the time we got back to Meru House, our hostel, it was almost one in the morning. ONE IN THE MORNING. Yeah, yeah, I know…you go to bed at like 2:30 every night after your big summer party nights, blah blah blah. But for someone who has been going to bed consistently at 9 o’ clock for the past 5 weeks, going to sleep at one was a big. deal.

So anyways, we had waffles and cornflakes this morning…or at least I did…Liana made an unfortunate choice of getting a cheese sandwich, which, I kid you not, tasted exactly like a sloppy joe. And now we’re going to run some errands (maybe getting some of you some presents, if you’re lucky) before rounding out the weekend and starting up week six.

So maybe we are not material for the next big teen drama. But your life doesn’t include befeathered old professors, backpackers on LSD, and unrequited Tanzanian love, and you know it makes you jealous. So, while you might have access to sunshine, hot water, grilled cheeses that don’t taste like sloppy joes, and doctors who take your temperature, weight, and blood pressure before they see you, just remember that Tanzania is fab in different ways.

You know you love me…

XOXO,

Gossip Girl, TZ.

After I posted last, Liana and I decided to spend another night in Arusha rather than going straight back out to the villages, which was a good decision. We went to the clinic here, which I’m getting really familiar with (joy!), and spent oh, four hours there waiting for the doctor to tell me to take the antibiotics I had already been taking. And to tell Liana that she had a urinary tract infection because she was vomiting. Vomiting is not a symptom of UTIs. Just so you know.

Anyways, after that, we decided to go see a MOVIE. Like, in a real THEATER. There is one here, about ten minutes out of downtown, that caters pretty much only to the rich white people who live here. So, we hopped in a cab to go. It was a little stressful, because our driver was going literally 10 mph the whole way there. When I asked him if he could go any faster, since we were late, he had zero response. It was dark outside, and Liana and I didn’t know the way to the theater, and we were starting to get a little freaked out.

A little turned into a lot when our cab driver’s phone rang, he slowly pulled over to the side of the road, and stopped. I tried to communicate that we were in a hurry, alternating between “fast” “hurry” and “GO, damn it.” (Almost all cab drivers here speak enough English to know what I was saying.) But he just looked at me, blinked, got out of the car, and started running away. Liana and I were debating between leaving and calling another cab and staying in the cab when he came back, five minutes later, with no explanation. He did then drive us to the theater, and, though we were about 10 minutes late and had already missed all the previews, it was so worth it to see Patrick Dempsey’s face six feet tall on the big screen. While eating popcorn. Besides one brief power outage and a really bad script (the movie was Made of Honor), the movie was perfect.

Then it was back out to good ol’ Lengijave!! I never thought I would be so happy to see my little polygamous compound–home sweet home. With one, rather major alteration. It appears that Kira and my whining inspired the coordinators to have a word with our baba about the deafening and never-ending screaming of his baby at night. And then, our baba moved his family into a tent.

Literally, he pitched a tent right in front of the house. And he, mama #4, and screeching baby have moved out of the house, and into the tent. Now, I’m not going to lie, this is somewhat relieving, because I don’t go to bed terrified of what the night will hold for me anymore. But, if your family took in an exchange student, and 3 weeks later you were living in a tent in the front yard, you might think there was something a little wrong with the scenario. Needless to say, we feel pretty bad. Also needless to say, our mama hates us with a burning passion. She never said much to us really, but now when she sees us she kind of gets this look on her face like she just drank some sour milk from the cow in the front yard. We’re being careful of what we eat, just in case she decides to get us out of her house a little sooner than planned, but really, if she poisons us, I mean, can you blame her?

Other than the tent situation, it was really nice to be back in the village, and I picked up pretty much right where I left off.

Our daily routine is pretty standard. We get up early and eat a breakfast of toast and instant hot chocolate (which is made with this powdered milk stuff called NIDO that provides me with basically all of my nutrients here. Really.) before the other four group members come over to walk to our teachings. Our two primary schools are about half-a-mile up the dusty highway, and no matter how many times we make that walk, everyone still gawks at us. Even the cows sometimes. Of which there are thousands…literally. Almost all the people you pass are children…they are teeming out of this village, but only a small proportion get to go to school. We don’t really have much of a way to teach the kids who don’t get to go to school, most of whom don’t even speak Swahili, and would probably run away screaming if we made any sudden moves.

We have school teachings Monday through Thursdays in the mornings. The schools are nothing much to look at–just a bunch of concrete classrooms with worn, wooden benches to serve as desks. We teach standards 4 and 7, which are the middle-to-older-aged kids in the primary school. The other standards are out for vacation. Usually we have anywhere from 35-50 kids in the class. (Keep in mind, when I say kids, sometimes I mean men who are 6 years older than me.)

We teach for an hour or so and then go back home for lunch. Usually also to curl up in our sleeping bags for a while, because mornings here can be incredibly cold. Lunch, which is usually rice and spinach, is a matter of trying to taste as little as possible, and usually takes about five minutes.

In the afternoons, we go for walks, sometimes up to our dukas to get a soda or something. These are always interesting times, because you really just never know what’s going to happen to you or who you are going to run into. Last week we had an old, very happy, very drunk man come and sit down with us. He talked for about 20 seconds before he passed out, mid-sentence. Then he woke back up and picked right back up. Lots of old men here stumble around with Konyagi, the local (and terrible) gin that come in packets. Like Capri Sun. But so much nastier.

Afternoons are also a time when some of the villagers can come and talk to us and figure out what we’re doing there. It’s always encouraging to talk to the curious ones, because they remind me exactly why we’re here. They usually also tell us that they are excited that we’re teaching about AIDS, and they want to know exactly when the next community teaching is. 

Yesterday, we were sitting around on a hillside by the dukas (which are little wooden shops, if I haven’t said that already) just chatting. A younger man approached us and asked to see my curriculum, which was out in front of me. First of all, I was pretty shocked that he asked so nicely, because a lot of times people (mostly children and old people) will just take things from you if they want to see them. Once a really old, semi-crazy man yanked my iPod away from me and looked at it for about (very tense) ten minutes before deciding to give it back. No, just kidding…they always give everything back. Personal space and property just aren’t concepts that are very familiar here, so they aren’t doing anything rude in their culture.

Anyway, he looked it over for about ten minutes before asking me how HIV is transmitted. I told him the three ways (sexually, blood-to-blood, mother-to-child) that the virus spread, and he asked a few more questions before asking when he could come to a teaching. He said he was eager to know everything we knew so that he could teach everyone he knew too.

This was affirming. But then he pointed up to a group of old men sitting above us on the hill, and said, “This man, on the left…he wants you his wife.” Well, what can I say. Marraige proposals are not uncommon in the village, and at this point are only marginally awkward. Luckily, at that moment, I looked up and saw that the AKAMBA bus to Nairobi (the one Liana and I had to stand up on before they would admit that we had to be seated at the beginning of our little Kenya adventure) passing by. I didn’t really think about it before I made a very rude gesture at the driver while yelling something a bit more obscene than is appropriate for village life.

I looked behind me, and the group of old men was just staring. Our new friend looked at me, and then at one of the other volunteers, pointed at her and said, “Maybe her. She is meek.” Then, looking back at me, “You know this word? Meek?”

So, sadly, I think my marraige proposal was revoked by my rash outburst. Oh, well.

After our afternoon walks, we lesson plan for the next day or go to a community teaching, and then go home for showering and dinner. Showering is when our mama puts about 4 cups full of hot water in a bucket in the choo and lets us go at it. So, we do what we can, but “clean” isn’t really what I would use to describe the overall outcome. Dinner in our house is either cold potatoes, spinach, grease soup, and bread (this is the preferable option) or ugali, spinach, grease soup, and bread. Ugali is basically corn meal and water stirred until it reaches the consistancy of playdough. Mmmm.

That takes about ten minutes, and then it’s into our sleeping bags and under our mosquito nets for Kira and me. We usually go to sleep around 9. Ten, if we’re feeling really bold.

It’s hard to believe that we only really have three weeks left in the village–half of our stay there is done. Time seems to move in super-slow motion some days in the village, but overall, it’s just flying by us. Our next big task is to start planning a community day and a testing day so that anyone can come and find out their HIV status for free. This is our big event, and I’m pretty excited to get started on it.

I’ll be in Arusha until Sunday morning, so I might write a supplemental post before we go back into the villages. If you’re lucky.

After my last post, we went back to the Mombasa airport to wait for our flight, which was supposed to leave at 4 p.m. We got there around noon and went through security and up to the terminal. It was really bizarre…there were several dozen shops, cafes, duty frees, and other things in the terminal, but each one was closed, locked, and dark. There were about 3 other people in the terminal. We sat there until our flight was supposed to leave, by which point about 10 more people had filtered in and a couple of airline staff had showed up.

A few minutes after four, I asked one of the airline employees where our plane was and when it was getting in. “It is somewhere in the sky,” she told me confidently. When I proceeded to ask her a more approximate location, she said, “We don’t know..only that it is up there.”

Actually, our plane never left Dar to come and get us. At five, they notified us of this, telling us that our plane might be cancelled or might come in a few hours. Then all airport personnel proceeded to leave the terminal. About an hour later, when no one else showed up, we tried to get someone to help us via security staff, but to no avail. We were starting to get tres hungry, and to make matters worse, we were separated from the domestic terminal only by a piece of glass. In the domestic terminal, there was basically a bumping party, with about 300 people eating at the (open) cafe and bar and waiting their flights. It was kind of like having to sit right outside of Doms and try to do your homework during Pub. Basically torturous.

To make matters worse, not one, but three planes pulled up, in quick succession. And not once, but three times, we watched people from the happy side of the airport cheerily get on their pretty little airplanes and fly off without another thought. And then we were once again alone in the dark, unstaffed airport.

We had basically given up any hope of making our connection in Dar (which, by the way, is the city of Dar Es Salaam, NOT the wartorn state of Darfur, like my parents thought, so please don’t panic) to Arusha. Our plane finally did come at around 8:30. We boarded quickly, and no sooner were we on the plane then a flight attendant informed us that the pilot had made an executive decision to fly to Nairobi. Not Dar. We would then be able to get connections to Dar.

I really can’t explain my feelings at this point, having been blatantly lied to over and over by a succession of so many different people about where we were going and when we were going to get there. Honestly, we were so releaved to be leaving Mombasa that we really didn’t care where we were going, and actually, Nairobi is closer to Arusha than Dar is. On the short plane ride, we decided that it might be easier to just take a bus from Nairobi than to fly to Dar and have to figure out tickets for another plane, which would leave at god knows what time.

We got off of our plane in Nairobi and were heading to the exit to look for a cab to get us to a hostel for the night when I happened to see a sign overhead that said “Kiliminjaro 21:10.” Kiliminjaro is the name of the airport we fly into, and 21:10 meant the plane left at 9:10…about an hour after we arrived. But we ran to the gate anyway, saw that the flight was still in the gate, and decided to try to plead and beg our way on.

Many tears, a little bit of screaming, and some division A whining later, we watched the plane leave without us. But, we did manage to ascertain that there was a flight leaving to Kiliminjaro the next morning at 8 a.m. that had exactly two seats open on it. We also managed to ascertain that it was $320 per person for this 45 minute flight, and neither of us were willing to do that. We argued with the gate manager for two hours straight, trying to make a case for him to let us on for free. We may have told the teensiest fib about having already paid for tickets from Dar to Arusha, which we did not. Our boss had gotten us confirmation numbers for a flight, but hadn’t paid for the tickets. And they were on a different airline. (You say tomayto, I say tomahto.)

We gave him the confirmation numbers anyway, and he went to look them up in his database. As he is doing this, Liana and I are basically the only passengers left in the entire airport, with the exception of one, very sleepy Dutch man, who is passed out on a chair. The staff is cleaning the floor around us, and the lights are turning off one by one. We wait by the desk for him to call us from his office, which he finally does around 1 a.m. I answer the phone and he tells me that there is nothing he can do, his airline is not at fault for our missing our flight in Dar or for keeping us at an airport for twelve hours, or for rerouting us to another airport without telling us. It is, in fact, my fault.

In an unpleasant outburst, I threw the phone and burst out into tears, leaving Liana to deal with it. I couldn’t get through to my parents because I can’t call anywhere within my area code mysteriously, and of course, the only two numbers I know outside my area code are my grandparents, who happened to be at my house, and Skylar, my ex-boyfriend.

So, I called Skylar, who had to deal with a crazy ex-girlfriend calling him from half around the world and sobbingly beseeching him to call her parents without giving him an explanation, which he did, because he is a saint. Then I sobbed unintelligibly to my parents for about half an hour, to the shock of all the cleaning people gawking at me. When I could finally speak in sentences again, I got up to see what was going on with our ticket situation.

Apparantly, In Africa, if you want something, crying is not the way to get it. Being a bitch is. Liana had managed to toughen up and give the manager a piece of her mind, scaring him enough that he finally printed us tickets. At 1:30 in the morning, in this sketchy airport, it finally appeared that we were going home.

We stumbled into a restaurant, which was closed but had someone working in it, and asked if we could sleep on the booths inside. He said it was ok, so we passed out, only waking up to throw up in the middle of the night because of a terrible smell that suddenly permeated everywhere. At 6 a.m., when we woke up, the restaurant worker ran over to me while Liana was in the bathroom, asking if I had gotten a good night’s sleep. As I was rubbing my eye and yawning, he looked at me eagerly and added, “You are so beautiful.” At which point, I had to try very hard not to throw up again.

After grabbing a (semi?) panini and deciding that we were now way too poor to afford anything in the duty free shops, we settled down at our terminal, and waited for our plane to come. Which, eventually, it did, bringing us safely into Arusha, and out of our nightmare vacation from hell, around 9 in the morning.

It’s wonderful to be back here, though we have mostly just slept and eaten since we’ve gotten in. We still aren’t sure whether or not we’re going back to the villages tonight or tomorrow, because neither of us feel very well at the moment, but we want to get back to our teaching. Today marks the exact half-way point of our trip, so no matter what happens from here on out, we are on the downhill. But I highly doubt I will be planning any more vacations to Kenya anytime soon.

So, stick with me, and I promise when I write on Friday or Saturday I will have something substantial, wordly, and sophisticated to say.

But you have to admit, our little vacay deserves a spot in the Traveling Horror Story Hall of Fame. Yes?

It kind of felt like that time that the nice woman at the bus station told us we were going to get into Mombasa at midnight, but then that was completely false. Or that time we were told by the bus company that our seats on the buses home to Arusha were taken care of. Really, we just don’t understand why everything anyone tells us about traveling is completely untrue. I mean, how do people make up these elaborate lies that sound so convincing? Or are we really just that dumb? No one knows.

Last night Liana and I went back to the hotel after having been hit on in a parking lot by 4 Dutch/Indian/from Atlanta? very inebriated young men who kept yelling at us to come to TEMBO! (We did not, alas, go to Tembo, but we still think this is probably the sad and lonely highlight of our trip.) We slept about 6 hours before getting up and driving to the airport this morning.

After going back and forth to all the airline kiosks and finding out that we were not going to get any flight direct into Arusha, we started looking for flights that connected through Dar or Nairobi. The good news? There’s plenty of these. The bad news? They are all completely full. Basically, Mombasa has kidnapped us and is never letting us go. We got the only flight into Tanzania that we could find–a flight that leaves at 4 p.m. from Mombasa and flies into Dar. Until about 30 seconds ago it was looking doubtful that we were going to get a flight from Dar to Arusha tonight, but our coordinator just called and said there are some flights we might be able to hop on. Honestly, I don’t feel like getting my hopes up, but maybe our luck is about to change?

We’re trying to keep our spirits up, but Liana is now feeling just as bad as I am now, so we’re passing the thermometer back and forth between us and monitoring each others’ symptoms. I know this is probably a pretty grim post, but we always knew that there were going to be rough times, and we are learning the way that different parts of the world works outside of the clockwork of American infrastructure. So, we’re doing our best to take the good with the bad and reminding ourselves that we’re going to get back to Arusha somehow. Our coordinator has been doing an amazing job trying to get us home, and we know we’ll make it back, even if it means that our nice mini vacay has turned into the absolute trip from hell.

One of our coordinator’s friends will be waiting for us in Dar to take us to a hostel if we can’t get a flight to Arusha, and once we get out of this city and back into Tanzania and get some rest I think we’ll feel better. So, hamna shida. (No problem.) Ok, not really, but we’ve been handling everything, and we may not like it, but we’ll handle everything that comes next, so there’s no reason to worry.

Hopefully the next time I post I will be in Arusha, rested and well-fed. Then I will not be such a grumpy bear. But I know I’m starting to really adjust, because when I think about wanting to go home, I don’t really dream about the U.S. anymore (though obvi. I still miss everyone/thing/food tres much.) Right now I just want to see the clock tower in Arusha and I think I would feel all better. One more month doesn’t seem like that long, and I get little reminders all the time about what a small world it is. Last weekend we ran into a Baptist missionary who just happened to be from Stokes County, about thirty minutes away from home in NC. He had been here for six years, which makes our eight weeks seem pretty insignificant. (He also gave me a sweet English-KiSwahili bible.) I think really the worst part about being stuck here, besides what it’s costing our poor (but thankfully very supportive) parents to get us back, is that we are missing valuable teaching time.

Though I did at one point sob loudly to Liana in the airport that I would rather find a flight to New York than stay here another night. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.