My village's dog FAQs

Scene: talking to the women down by the road. Their agenda is to get me to marry their cousin. The topic turns to my dog. 

Woman: why is your dog skinny? Have you seen OUR dog? He's gotten fat. Are you feeding your dog?

Me: "of course I feed him, he just hasn't gotten fat yet"

Cousin: (in English): "he has a maintained figure."

~~~~~~~~~~

Questions people (mostly kids but some adults) have asked me about my dog:

"Are you going to take him to America? He's gonna need a passport right?"

"Does your dog have a cellphone?"

"Have you trained your dog yet to take money to the market and bring you back vegetables? Dogs do that in Europe don't they?"

"Your dog needs a female, when are you gonna get him one?"

"Say hi to your dog for me!"

"What have you brought?!"

"Let's go slaughter him!"

"When does he need his shots again?"

"Who feeds him when you're gone? Is that person a Muslim?"

"Have you gone hunting with him yet?"

"Give him soup! He'll get fat!"

(On the bus/ in town): "where's your dog? Why did you leave him at home?"

:)

Ol Doinyo Lengai

At a certain point in your life, you find yourself on the side of an active volcano, legs aching and trembling, being led down in the early morning light by the hand of a Maasai warrior, the escarpments of the great Rift Valley slowly coming into focus, reaching out in front of you. 

Just when I thought I was beginning to understand Tanzania, I go to another part, and once again am bewildered, bedazzled, and humbled by this country, this environment, and these people all over again. 

Northwest of Arusha, the landscape changes. It is a moonscape: grey ash covers the ground; there are entire fields of rounded stones; little vegetation. The terrain becomes more hilly, more mountainous. This time of year is still hot and dry, and lush vegetation is nowhere to be found; only dried grasses, scraggly acacia trees, low sparse shrubs. 

Once you see the volcano, the magma flows that substitute (poorly) for roads and the grey sand that's really volcanic ash start to make more sense. The bus bobs, weaves, and threads its way through the landscape. There are few villages along the way, and even far from houses you see Maasai tending their cattle in the hot sun. Children run up to the bus and beg, and passengers throw them their empty soda bottles or a little change. 

The wind here is fierce, especially at night. We leave the bedroom window open because without a breeze it is still quite hot inside, but the wind gusts and whistles, threatening to tear the blanket and sheets off of your body. I switch to a sleeping bag and am able to relax, listening to the wind whip across this flat part of land. 

We climbed up the volcano in the dark. About three quarters of the way there, one of my volunteer friends and I decide to rest and then turn back, because from there it only got steeper and more difficult as you approach the rim. We had been climbing up old lava flows, gripping our walking sticks and the pumice-like stone that has the unfortunate tendency to crumble under your grip. Your legs ache more than they ever have before, and the channels we follow have a layer of volcanic ash, making you feel like you're moonwalking, as your steps slide backward and you find yourself making little progress. 

So one of the guides remains with us as the rest of the gang continues on to summit. We arrange ourselves in the dark, like mountain goats, trying to find a position to rest in at this impossible angle. We turn off our headlamps and I lie down in a groove, putting my backpack under my head and settling into the ash to rest. Remarkably, the three of us all get a little sleep before waking in the cold and descending, slowly and not without slips and falls in the loose terrain. The evolution of daylight is magnificent; we climbed up in pitch darkness, and now in half-light, we can see the landscape far, far below us, the dark and shadowed patterns of lava flows, the escarpments which mark the edge of the Serengeti. 

Marco, our lodge manager, volcano guide, and Maasai warrior, sings as he capers down the mountain. He sings songs in Kimaasai, he raps, he makes up his own songs about us. He points out the flows from the last eruption, which was in 2008 and which he was here for. 

The three of us make it down without incident, and wait trepidatiously for the rest of the group. There is no cell phone service in this area, not even up on the volcano, so if anything went wrong we wouldn't know until if or when they come off the mountain. And thankfully, around late morning they come off the mountain, exhausted and covered in grey ash, weary and sore, having made it up to the summit. 

In the evenings, from our lodge you can see giraffes passing in the distance, making their graceful way towards water. There are unlikely streams here; cutting their way through sun and ash, they run clear and beautiful, arteries that life is strung out along. Herds of zebras can also be seen in the distance, resting under and around trees. 

The next day we hike up a stream to a waterfall; it is the most beautiful and refreshing thing we could ask for. Coconut palms and lush plants grow high where the water erupts from a spring, then cascades through a crevice and then down to a tall and wide tunnel that opens up again, pools and rushing water, some cool and some warm, massaging your sore muscles. 

I leave a day early to get back to my dog. Marco takes me to the stand to wait until my bus comes. He talks to me about his hopes and fears, what he's done and what he wants to do. He doesn't want his culture to be lost, but at the same time, he says, he's frustrated when he sees men who have an abundance of cattle - hundreds, thousands - at the expense of other things, such as education or good clothing for their children. It is late morning and the sun is already strong and hot, but Marco doesn't seem to notice. In his eyes are obsidian and centuries.

I board my bus and land a seat in the front, next to an older man who is a teacher and speaks good English. We pass vultures eating what seems to be a lion's kill, then a herd of zebras gallops in front of our bus. A family of baboons  moves slowly a short distance away from the road, a baby riding its mother's back.  We pass more children, who are selling an ostrich egg. An ostrich egg! And a short while later we pass a huge male ostrich. "The female mustn't be too far away," the teacher informs me. All this seen from a typically noisy bus on a typically bumpy road. 

The soil segues from volcanic ash back to the red clay I'm used to seeing where I live. But my mind has yet to depart from that land, full of tall, graceful people in their African tartans, gazing out at the mesmerizing sight of cattle walking lazily ahead of them, hides glistening, slowly whipping up a cloud of ash under their hooves. Plodding, peaceful, beautiful beasts. 

Hundreds. Thousands. 

Drying up

I planted my garden which may have been quite a mistake at this time of year. It needs about five buckets of water a day, which I have to carry from the pond down by the road. Even with that much water, only the surface is moistened. Corn and sunflowers have sprouted, but everything else is still contemplating existence under the soil in the hot sun. 

Rains won't start until November, so I can always wait until then to plant a round two to save time and energy in case this round fails. 

Every morning I still go down to the pond to get water, where there is still some clear water in the small springs and sand pits the women have dug to filter out the cloudiness of the pond water. The Chinese road construction company pulls up its two big water trucks on the far side of the raw pond, letting down big hoses powered by generators to pull up the muddy water to fill their tanks. Sometimes it feels a bit like a race; the trucks taking up water rapidly on one side, women with plastic buckets and cans of every color scooping up water by the bowlful on the other. Mechanical advantage is not something to be messed with. 

Things are progressing slowly here; in the past week or so I've been to two village government meetings regarding the water situation. Meetings are fine, except when you get there on time and have to wait an hour plus for everyone else to show up, and then evening is approaching rapidly and all you can think about is how tired you are of trying to understand rapid-fire Swahili, and how you still have to light your charcoal stove and cook. 

At the second meeting, I guess I had a bit of a dazed and glassy look to me as the meeting wrapped up, and I stepped outside as people were shifting, in an attempt to segue back to my house. The leaders called me back in and handed me a thousand shilling note. "Go get soda," they told me. I tried to decline but the sympathetic looks on their faces told me that they knew how I was feeling; exhausted and in need of a sugar pick-me-up. Maybe I should be a little more careful to not let my air of ennui show during these meetings!

Life goes on under the hot sun, shielding your eyes as you pick your way home from the pond, a bucket full of water on your head, and a rest in the shade on your mind.  

Dog jaunt

It is now the hour of alfajiri - the hour between five and six in the morning. I hear the mosque's plaintive calls from nearby, and Kitmeer's breath as it whistles gently through his nostrils as he dozes on his cushion beside my bed. 

Yesterday I took my dog for a walk. The concept of walking just to walk seems strange and foreign to Tanzanians; why would you choose to go anywhere without an apparent reason, on a hot, sunny day?

But I packed some semblance of a picnic (hard-boiled egg, banana, peanut butter bar crumbles), water, and a book, and we set off. Kitmeer is still at the stage where he loves everybody, which unfortunately is not a reciprocated emotion. He loves children, but unfamiliar ones to him will run away and screech at his approach. He will also run up to adults, although he is a little more cautious when it comes to men. If we are out away from people and a man walks by, though, Kitmeer will woof and let out a gentle growl, as if to inform me of what he is seeing. 

We wandered up towards the church and the primary school, then past, where the soil segues from farmable to sandy and desert-like. Spiky sisal plants dominate the landscape, and we roam narrow herd paths to find small oases of tree groves or single large trees who cast their shadow generously. Down into sand rivers, wandering up their water-worn rocks that have seen no flow but the slow trickle of cattle herds for a very long time. 

We turn back to revisit a large tree where to rest from the hot sun. We had been walking in and along a dried creek ravine, and Kitmeer runs ahead and plunges down a side trail, to descend into it once again. A short minute later, I hear his tormented cries, as if he was convinced the world had swallowed him up, whole and alone. I run back to where I see him crying and waiting, a small tan creature, and call to him. He clambers up the ravine again, and we continue, with him being markedly more careful to keep me in his sights. 

After resting and snacking, we make our slow way back to the village, where we slip through narrow passageways between brick buildings and Kitmeer capers spunkily around the courtyard of a woman drying pigeon pea pods. We both laugh and I stand at the entrance, trying to call Kitmeer out of her courtyard. After a few loops he follows me out. 

We rested in the shade of our home for the rest of the hot and dusty afternoon. 

Home again

The past three weeks I was away from my village for early service training and water security training. I attended both trainings with my counterpart, who is my village executive officer. I think we both learned a lot during the trainings, and it was great getting to spend time with everyone in my class, but these three weeks were very draining. 

On my way back, I was anticipating being able to get money in my banking town, but as things are wont to go, my efforts at the ATMs were stymied. So yesterday I bussed up to my "other" banking town, and luckily was able to get money there, although the bus ride there was a bit traumatizing as the vehicle must have been violating more safety regulations than usual. Long story short, I have a massive bruise on my knee and an oath never to ride that death trap again. 

After the grueling ride, I was walking through the bus stand, looking for my favorite conductor, when two ladies called me by my tribal name. In town I usually ignore pretty much everyone, unless of course they call me by name. I didn't know the ladies very well, but they knew me, and my sense of humanity started to come back into focus, as the misery of the bus ride subsided slowly. 

I had some time to kill so I got a shortbread cookie at the Indian grocery, bought dried chickpeas, and went fabric shopping and found three kitenge I had been looking for. 

I went back to the standi and found my conductor. We laugh about how we was supposed to bring bread for another volunteer who lives on my road, but due to communication issues that mission failed. We buy her more and wait in the dusty sun for it to be time to leave. 

And I went back to my village. Many are happy to see me and welcome me back and ask about where I was. Night falls and I get chai and doughnuts at my favorite chai house, and walk back home through the field of pigeon peas, shadows falling in the moonlight. 

It takes a village

I didn't have a lot planned today. Make mango chutney, take kanga to my seamstress to be hemmed, ask my village executive officer about a letter I need him to write.

I didn't plan on going to a funeral.

A little after noon I headed down to see my seamstress, but on the way I saw her little brother herding the family's bull, who told me that she had gone into town today. I also ran into her father, my carpenter, who informed me that the furniture he's building for me isn't quite ready, and he can't work on it today because there's a funeral. The burial is in the afternoon, he told me, and asked if I was heading over now. I told him I would go later. 

I dropped by to see my drugstore sister, and even she told me she was going to the burial. I asked if we could go together and she agreed. 

So I went back to my house, put some nicer clothes on, and went to find my dada again, but she was nowhere to be found. I walk to the market to see if she passed by that way, but the ladies there say they think she already went to the burial, but that I should wait for them, they'll be heading over too. So I camp out in the market for a while, and buy some fried sweet potato with "pili pili" salsa fresca, and hang out until three of the women and I finally head down to the house where the burial is. 

There are several cars and people everywhere, many people from my village but also people from out of town - mostly I can tell by the way they dress. There are women cooking, and men standing and talking. I see one man I know from church and he gestures inside, telling me to enter. There are at least two dozen women in the room, sitting on a few couches and on large mats on the floor, singing and reading prayers. The focal point is a small red and gold casket, with a photo and a wooden headboard leaned against it, reading the name of the child, not even six years old, who has died, from complications of a stomach illness, as I can best understand. 

The women are interrupted and we are told that Mass will be said now, and we file outside into the courtyard, while men carry the casket and place it on stools before the makeshift altar. Tarps have been suspended overhead, to provide some shade, and there are some chairs but I find myself with some other women standing on the sideline during Mass, with some large tanks and buckets of water behind me. The priest is aware of the large number of Muslims in attendance, and acknowledges them in greeting. 

Mass is said, then the casket is opened and a procession around it is orchestrated. The mother and close female relatives of this small boy are in poor condition; when they bring up the procession, they can barely walk, supported by other family members and friends, and launch into hysterical crying, grieving even until they let their bodies go slack and they are carried inside. 

When the procession finishes, the casket is closed again and carried a stone's throw away from the house, into the field where pigeon peas are growing, soon to be harvested, where a hole has been dug and a mound of red clay soil awaits. 

Up until now it has been a women's ceremony. I only saw one young male family member shed tears, while many women held their shawls and head wraps over their face, grieving quietly, in sympathy, in empathy. But now the men take over. More prayers are said, more holy water dispersed, and the casket is put in the ground. I stand near the small group of women who have been leading the songs throughout. All the other women except this small group disperse, to help with cooking, to sit and rest, to check on the family who is grieving hard. 

Shovels and hoes appear, and the group of more than thirty men, Christians and Muslims, start to tackle the huge mound of red soil. There are fewer than five tools, but it seems that each man seamlessly offers his help, moving the soil efficiently into the hole. The dull thud of shovelfuls of soil being tossed down is rhythmic enough to sound like a heartbeat, coming deep from the earth. 

They say it takes a village to raise a child, but they failed to mention that it also takes a village to bury one as well. For the first time today my tears are close to the surface. I know many of these men, Christians and Muslims, who are dutifully and carefully burying this small body. Most of them have children, even grandchildren, of their own. They all know, we all know, that this misfortune could have happened to any family. 

Funerals are an outlet for sadness, frustration, and grief, in this culture that seems to tamp down emotions such as these. At a funeral, tears are permitted. Mothers breaking into hysterics, even until they cannot walk, is permitted. 

And the men, still stoic, rain down soil on the remnants of a life gone too quickly. 

Hunger: the expected, but uninvited, guest

I ended my day yesterday exhausted, with what I like to call a "triple S" headache: one that stems from Sun, Smoke, and Swahili. 

Perhaps I should rewind a bit to explain it all. 

Yesterday was Idi, which is the day of celebration after the month of Ramadan. I had some idea of what to expect but nevertheless it was an entirely new experience for me. 

Things were different even from the first thing I do when I leave my house every morning: going to the spring to get water. I knew today was a holiday so I made sure to bring my own bowl to scoop water from the small shallow pools where it collects, and when I arrived I was glad I came prepared, because there were only a few young girls around the water, sent to fetch that morning. So I took water, then headed back home. 

After dropping off my water and swapping my kanga for a nicer one, I headed down to see my guesti sister, and found her eating a beans and corn dish with her four-year-old son and our friend from up the hill. She handed me tea and invited me to finish the dish with them, and I obliged, since I told myself Idi is the one day of the year I don't mind relying on other people's hospitality to feed me, since generosity and cooking pots are overflowing this day. 

We compared henna, which the three of us had applied yesterday, and then we headed out, first to stop at our seamstress's place. I'm pretty sure the poor girl didn't get any sleep last night; despite being a Christian herself, most of the village (and thus her clientele) are Muslims, who have been bringing her swaths of brightly printed fabric to sew all manner of dresses, skirts, and shirts for to wear on Idi. Our friend, a mother of twins, came here to check on her request to sew small hats for her daughters, to match their outfits for today. Our seamstress assured that they would be ready in a few hours. 

Next stop was the market to stock up on vegetables, then we got meat at two butchers who were making brisk business that day. Then we headed up to our friend's house, to cook porridge for the twins, and to start cooking pilau. 

I can't say I was much of a help during cooking; there was only one knife, which passed between the capable hands of the two other young ladies. Mama Wawili ("mother of two") cooked on the charcoal stove burning warm and toasty in the sitting room, while my guesti sister used wood to stoke a fire outside, cooking in a pot balanced on bricks over the smoky fire. I peeled garlic and onions and shuttled the bag of salt from inside to outside, while the grandma kept the twins out of range of fire and trouble. 

Finally the pilau, meat and sauce, and additional rice were cooked, and a pot was put on for tea. Mama Wawili had a small crisis when she realized she misplaced the earrings she had bought for her twins to wear. She and my guesti sister take off, thinking maybe they left them at the guesti, and return some time later, calmed down, and with the newly-sewn hats for the twins in tow. 

We eat, then my guesti sister washes her son, then wraps him in a kanga to walk back home to put on his new suit and good shoes. I head out with them, then strike out for my own home, to cuddle my puppy and take a breather from the cooking smoke and the sun that has started to shine with intensity, burning off the haze of the morning. 

I head down to my "road mama", the wonderful old lady who always beckons me if she sees me head down to the road to catch a bus on days that I travel. One of her daughters is visiting from Arusha, and I am fed again, and asked many questions, struggling, as usual, to keep afloat in this world of Kiswahili. One of the schoolteachers comes by, offering to take a photo for a thousand shillings (about 50 cents), then go to develop them in town and bring back copies. I find myself in the center of several photos, then even more as I accompany a granddaughter up to the health clinic, where swarms of children wearing their Idi best are waiting to have their pictures taken. 

Many people have invited me to come visit and eat with them today, but it would be physically dangerous, or even impossible, for me to eat that much food, as they would be disappointed and/ or offended if I didn't eat at every one of their houses. So I stuck to the two meals I had happened upon, and as the day drew to a close, I made a circuitous route to my home, as I didn't want to pass by the health clinic and have to deal with swarms of children trying to take a picture with me. I got back to my house for the most part unnoticed, drank some kool-aid, and fed my dog. I was completely exhausted from a day of loud music, salty food, and bright colors. Talk about sensory overload!

I have mentioned this briefly before, but my tribal name is Kwaari, which means Hunger. I was named such because when I first came to visit my village, it was the season of hunger, before the crops are ready to harvest. This year has been especially hard for my village, so many of whom are farmers, because the rainy season was not a good one and the corn crop, the staple food, suffered. 

Ramadan, the month of fasting, could not have come at a better time, because I think it helped my village forget the trials of the crops. Hunger is normal during Ramadan. Hunger is expected. 

I was talking to a fellow volunteer about Idi. "It's like if Christmas came after Lent," we decided, trying to categorize the festivities in terms of the Christian ones we understand and grew up with.

In my family back home, during Christmas Eve we have a tradition of preparing for the "unexpected guest". When we set the table to eat in the evening, we set one extra place, just in case someone shows up, so that we are ready to invite them to the meal and show them hospitality. 

And on the day of Idi, I found myself here, invited many places but unexpected in others, an unexpected-but-expected guest, never wanting for hospitality. 

Many people delight in my name, "Hunger", but I think that it may be a constant reminder of something that strikes very close to home this year. That kind of hunger, the kind that comes from no rain and shriveling crops, is expected. But it is certainly not invited. 

Chasing skirts/ a holy thirst

This morning I left my house before eight in the morning, determined, as on most other weekdays, to find someone useful (village government, health clinic staff) to ask questions to help garner information for the report I must prepare about my village. But as I made my usual loop passing offices, residences, and the health clinic, not a soul was to be found. Which seems, most unfortunately, to often be the case in this month of Ramadan. My hopes of an eventful morning were rapidly dwindling. 

So I went to my default destination of my old guesti sister's place. I found her cleaning sporadically and huddling inside her bedroom, telling me how cold it was this morning. I laugh and chat with her, and her friend from up the hill arrives too, while the electric crew file in and out and cast their typical joviality over the place. 

My ears perk up when my dada mentions that there is an mnada, or large traveling market, today at a village on the other side of the small mountain range. I have been searching for any excuse to take one of the many paths over the mountains to the other side, so I jump on this opportunity. The female urge to beautify ourselves sets in, and my dada dispatches me and my friend to our respective houses to put on our best clothes for our appearance on that side of the mountain. 

What seems to be about three hours after our first inkling of going, we finally depart. We take a gentle walk through a gradual incline, we pass two low creeks, up some more, sight the village's water tank at the peak, then start the steep and rocky descent to the village and plain below. Over a narrow tree-bridge over a dried gorge, down into a dried gorge of a riverbed, then flat going until we reach the mnada. It takes us about two hours to walk here. 

I don't actually need to buy anything, I've only come to satisfy my desire to cross the mountain range. However as always in these shopping situations, I question my ability to refrain from buying anything. I stop to greet the fabric vendors I recognize from our local mnada, as I consider it very important to maintain good relationships with this gang of people. The sun is brutally hot, and I definitely overdressed for the occasion - I tie my black jacket around my neck and adjust my "thick cotton" kitenge wrapped around my dress. (Though I secretly laugh at the concept of cotton keeping you warm in the cold - many women here tell me that I must keep warm by wearing the "heaviest" cotton possible, which is the wax kitenge that is not very heavy at all. In my opinion, cotton is not really the go-to fabric for warmth or insulation...)

I also question my ability to keep "closed" today - to continue my Ramadan fast. As the afternoon wears on my mouth and throat are going dry, and I feel my breath going stale for want of water. My few packets of koolaid at my house are occupying my thoughts intensely. 

At about three in the afternoon we depart, taking a more direct route this time over the mountain. We climb the rocky surface of the mountain, pausing once, then once again, to rest and to look back at our progress - through the trees you can see the blue tarps of the mnada, far down and far away below us. It is almost inconceivable how high and far we've climbed. 

Most of the way back I follow closely a woman who brandishes an eight-foot-long piece of sugarcane, a common thing to buy at the mnadas. She alternates between using it as a walking stick and holding it horizontally in her hand. Up the mountain I follow her steps closely, the only things in my vision being her flip flops and long skirt, a steep patch of trail about three feet long, and the blunt end of her sugarcane, which comes dangerously close to tapping me in the head on occasion. 

And it is the most natural thing in the world to be thirsty, and to be walking single file through the ups and downs of Africa. But I could be anywhere, as we enter the precious little microclimates of cool oxygen in the shadier parts of the forest. I could be anywhere with anyone and I am here. 

Long days, short water

Today was the first Saturday of Ramadan and a very quiet day indeed. I am continuing to "close" myself for Ramadan, although polishing off my chai thermos at five in the morning when the mosque prayers wake me up and I put the puppy out may be slightly bending the rules a bit. Also I ate some sunflower seeds today - a girl who visited me gave them to me, and I ate two before I realized what I was doing, then justified it, figuring it was more of a pastime than actual food. So I kept eating them. Whoops. 

Our springs are drying up - when I went to get water this morning, like the last few days, the water is very low and dirtier than usual. Once the springs dry up, my village will open a pipe from another nearby village that pumps water here. That water must be paid for, so people pay by the bucket - 50 shillings for a 20-liter bucket of water. 

I made bread for the third time today on my charcoal stove, and I might be getting the hang of it. I'm not using a recipe because I don't have measuring cups and because it's more fun to experiment, figuring out the ratio of flour to water and exactly what amount fits to bake nicely in one of my pots. 

Puppy Kitmeer is in fine fettle. I am now cooking for the both of us, which works out well because it seems I always cook a little more than I can practically eat. So I cook a one pot meal, like a stew or pilaf, take out his portion when it's all cooked, then add salt, curry powder, or whatever seasonings to mine. Then I add a little powdered milk and dagaa (tiny dried anchovy-like fish) to his portion. So far he's not been picky, let's hope he stays that way!

In other news, I finally have a bed! Kitmeer is not a fan because he liked the mattress on the floor, where he could climb onto it. It will be quite some time before he's big enough to jump up on the bed now. Also, he let out a less-than-five-pound-puppy growl at my carpenter's apprentice when they came into my house to assemble the bed. Though he be but little, he is fierce. :)

Ramadan, day one

Today I carried water on my head from the spring (like most days), did laundry, tended to my new puppy, bought a doormat from my seamstress's sister who weaves them out of her fabric scraps, made bread on my charcoal stove "oven" for the first time, and otherwise felt like a great domestic success. I was going to do some data collection in my village but the health clinic was closed, presumably because of the holy day, and the entire village was very quiet. 

So I'm trying to observe the fasting of Ramadan. I've never done it before, seeing as I've never lived around this many Muslims before, but I am giving it a try. Yesterday, the last day before Ramadan, the last thing I ate was sweet spiced chai and two mandazi (slightly sweet fried donut type things). I had come back to my village that day from getting my puppy, and on days that I travel (and sundays, I've decided), I don't have the time or energy to light my charcoal stove to cook for myself, so I go to one of the chai houses. I went as night was falling, and waited as the fresh kettle of tea warmed up on red coals and watched the man fry batch after batch of mandazi. Finally the chai was ready and was poured for me, and two mandazi, still steaming hot, were placed befor me. Dinner of champions. 

And then it wasn't until after the sun set today that I ate or drank anything again. This one day hasn't been that difficult, but then again I didn't really exert myself today - I'm sure I would be saying something different if I had been working on a farm under the hot sun all day, as many people here do. And I'm sure I'll be saying something different in a week or two's time. 

Kitmeer: the dog I named a year ago

Today I woke up dogless. Being dogless wasn't a huge surprise, but this morning was a little frustrating because the evening before, my fellow volunteer (whose village I came to visit that day) and I had unsuccessfully attempted to get a man to sell me one of his puppies. I had lured the friendliest puppy close by dropping chipsi (fries) closer and closer to me, until I was able to pick him up, holding his soft weight for about an hour as we engaged in deliberations with this man until he finally told us that he wasn't going to sell the puppy. So I put the puppy down and we left, with nothing but cold bagged Chipsi in tow. 

In Tanzania, it's important to have contingency plans. So the morning after my first plans were thwarted, I knew that I would stop at a village that's between mine and my fellow volunteer's, on the off-chance that there were puppies there, because there are none in my village (the ones that did exist were eaten by hyenas one night - or so I was told).

I got off the bus around eight in the morning, found a chai mama, and sat watching her roll chapati while the tea heated up on the red-hot charcoal stoves. I had tea and chapati and asked her if she knew of any puppies in this village. She said she didn't really know, so after I finished I wandered around the corner, where I found a man manning a small shop. I asked him, and he in turn called out to a pikipiki (motorcycle) driver who was nearby. They deliberated, asked me if I wanted a male or female, and then the piki driver and a teenage boy took off, a small cardboard box in tow. 

By this time it's past nine in the morning. The shop owner informs me that the first puppy litter they found had only females, so they were searching further afield.   There is nothing for me to do but wait, so I stand in front of the shop for the better part of an hour, as a group of teenage boys gather. More piki drivers pull up, also vijana (teenagers). The shop is where they buy fuel, by the liter or half-liter, for their pikis. There are a few bottles of fuel lined up on the shop railing, shining a dull clear reddish color. One young piki driver starts a spirited rant about fuel prices, galloping around and riling up all the boys, while another revs the engine of his piki that is ailing. 

The shop owner finally brings out a wicked-looking machete, brandishing it nonchalantly at the boys, cigarette in his mouth and a few mumbled tribal words on his lips. Most of the boys disperse, and the piki driver cools down. The shopkeeper puts the machete back. 

Finally my wait seems to be over as my piki driver, leather jacket buttoned backwards onto his torso, pulls up with boy and box in tow. I take out the scared creature, and it's a girl. "Did we make a mistake?" They ask, and I tell them yes, return with a male. 

More waiting, then they return, and I lift out a little runt of a male puppy. He is light brown with white on his chest, and he curls up, hiding his face under my jacket. 

"So," I ask the piki driver. 

"So, what price will you pay?" Asks the driver. 

Long story short, I paid 15,000 shillings for the whole situation - technically the breakdown was 5,000 for the puppy and 10,000 for the "fuel". But it all amounts to about $7, so I can't complain. 

One of my few bus options passed as we were deliberating payment, so I had to wait for another bus. I went over to the other shop whose owner I know, and she was very happy to see me. I waited there for the next bus option, and swaddled the puppy in a kanga I brought. But when the bus pulled up, the conductor told me I would have to put my dog in the boot, that I couldn't take him on like that. I refused, deciding I would wait through the afternoon until the last bus, which is my favorite because it's a small bus, typically chaotic, and typically a very friendly bunch of people. 

So we waited through the afternoon, and a friendly guy took me to find a cardboard box to put the puppy in this time. He even cut air holes in it! What a nice fellow. My conductor friend in this village found me, and he called the chain to find out when my bus was approaching. As time dwindled, we put the puppy in the box and tied it shut with some twine. 

As anticipated, my favorite bus people were very accommodating, even to the point of the puppy riding up front, in his box, in the nook between the bus driver and his door! The driver kept glancing down under his arm at the puppy, which made me nervous, because the road has many switchbacks and hills. Everything went well until about halfway though, when the puppy managed to get its front legs out of the box and began to emerge! My bus driver stopped the bus and handed the box back to me, and the conductors and I tried to push him back into the box. Then we were just a few minutes from my village when my puppy couldn't hold it any longer and messed inside his box. Despite the very crowded bus, I think he and I were the only ones who got dirty, and shortly thereafter we piled out, a hot and stressed mess, at my village. 

I was in a bit of a daze, and I walk past people who are surprised and happy that I've gotten a puppy. We get to our house, and I let him out. He looks so small wandering about my courtyard!

About a year ago, I knew that I would do Peace corps, and I knew that I would probably be living in a predominantly Muslim country or area. I knew that I wanted to get a dog during my service, so I started looking into Muslim perceptions of dogs. And I discovered an interesting legend. The coolest thing about this legend is that it is shared by both Muslims and Christians, even though a lot of people don't know about it. 

It is the legend of the seven sleepers, and you can google it, but I can summarize it briefly: it's about a group of people (typically seven), who, in the early ADs, were being persecuted for their faith. They flee to the hills, finding refuge in a cave, where they enter and fall asleep. Their dog stretches out at the entrance, and passerby only see a dog napping in the sun - no cave or refugees to be seen!

The story takes a Rip-van-Winkle turn, and the seven sleepers wake up years later, having slept through their faith's persecution. 

In the Muslim version of the legend, the dog's name is Qitmir, or Kitmeer, depending on spelling. And amazingly, when I arrived in Tanzania, one of the first billboards that caught my eye was for Kitmeer, which is the name of a furniture brand here!

So that is his name. A little obscure, but it means something to me. 

My independence days

I am pleased to say that since Saturday, I have been moved in to my house, since the latrine has been finished being built. Saturday I returned from a trip to the city to attend a memorial service for a health volunteer I trained with, who passed away tragically in a bus accident in the south of Tanzania. Despite the awful circumstances, it was good to be together again with many people from my training class who convened to grieve the loss. 

So Saturday I returned to my village, my emotions tempered, ready to move into my house. My village executive officer suggested that I wait to move in to my house until mosquito screening is put up in the windows, but I told him I would be fine without it (and I'm glad I didn't wait, because it's Wednesday already and still no signs of that project starting.)

It is wonderful to have a new degree of privacy that could not be had living in the guesti... although "privacy" might be a stretch, as I don't have curtains for some crucial windows, and the surrounding children love to come see me in my courtyard many times a day. 

And I can cook! I've made curried fish with potatoes one day, and Chipsi mayai the next - although that turned out more like an egg and potato scramble, but delicious nonetheless. 

Finally got a handle made for my hoe, so now I can start gardening. Mapped out my courtyard, will break ground tomorrow. 

Chai steam and jewel tones

Once again, I am reporting that I still have not started living in my house because the choo (latrine) has not been finished being built. So I have spent approximately three weeks living in a guesti, which for the first week or so was fine, but my main complaints are that I can't cook or start to make a garden while living in a guesti so I'm looking forward to being able to live in my own house. 

One morning when I was feeling particularly frustrated about the situation, my dada summoned me to go get chai with her, and I stepped out of our courtyard to see her chatting with the first person I met in my village during site visit two months ago. I had not seen him since moving to my village, and was beginning to wonder if something had happened to him. But there he was, and just seeing him, though he is for all practical proposes a complete stranger, was like a sign, putting my mind at ease and allowing me to slip into the comfort of constance and continuity. 

My Bibi Afya (health clinic nurse) had several pieces of kitenge and "wax", or really high-quality kitenge, that she was selling, and she asked if I was interested to buy some. I had forgotten about the situation until the next day or so when I was studying Swahili in my dada's front sitting room, with the door open to the road and the white door curtain drifting in the breeze. I hear my dada greet someone who has biked up to her drugstore entrance, and all of a sudden a man pushes back the curtain and holds a piece of wax kitenge imploringly towards me. Which would not have been very significant at all if it wasn't for the pattern of the fabric. 

I love looking at kitenge here because you hardly ever see the same pattern twice. I went to my village's twice-monthly market a week or two ago, and went from fabric vendor to fabric vendor, admiring all the fabrics. There was one that stood out in particular: golden orange scallop shells on a navy blue-black background. I thought seriously about buying it, then decided not to, because I already have several other fabrics I want to get made into clothing. 

I liked that fabric because it reminded me of the Camino, as the scallop shell is the ubiquitous symbol found along the pilgrim routes. So you could imagine my surprise when that man seeked me out, pushed back the curtain, and held that fabric towards me. 

I am often reminded of the Camino, and sometimes I feel like I am still on it. And sometimes it seeks me out. That day, it found me. In a dusty village in Africa. 

Rain season

This morning my guesti dada told me we were going to the health clinic. "Why?" I asked, wondering why our usual routine of heading up to the chai house was thrown off this morning. She said something about going to see a woman who had given birth, and off I was led, along with our neighbor and her two small daughters. 

Swahili side note: in this language, only animals "give birth". Women "open themselves", which is supposed to be a euphemism but to me seems kind of graphic. Going along with human/ animal differences: only people are "killed". Animals are "slaughtered".

We filed into a small dim room that was filled with two beds, a bench, and a chair or two. A young woman languished on one of the beds, wrapped in blankets. It took me a moment to figure out that the birth was over (thankfully) and that the newborn was there next to her, swaddled in kangas and sleeping. The room was filled with other women, many of whom had their own small children. One woman was feeding her toddler porridge out of a stainless steel cup. 

As we left I asked my dada when the mother would name her child, and she said it would be tomorrow. Here in Tanzania they do not give babies names right away. 

The rains are persistent today. Our water drum in the courtyard is full again. 

One week in

I've been in my village a week. That's pretty crazy to be able to say. 

Well, what can I tell you? My house isn't finished yet, so I'm still living out of my various bags and buckets in the guesti. My dada and I spend a lot of time together, I try to understand her Kiswahili and laugh when she chases the huge male duck when it tries to enter her drugstore. 

I've met more people than I ever thought would be possible, was introduced to ~180 secondary school students, class by class, by a hilarious and enthusiastic teacher named Jumanne ("Tuesday"), and was taken to see rock paintings similar to some well-known ones not too far away. 

I was flipping through a history book of east Africa when the topic came up. "Oh yeah," Jumanne said, "we have paintings like that too. They're just down the hill," he said, in so many Kiswahili words. So I said I wanted to see them, and off three of us went. Through parched creek beds, past bewildered children herding donkeys, through brush, past basking lizards. Partway down a steep forested hill, a large rock can be found, on the underside of which there is a small place to take shelter, and ancient paintings in red, of hunters, weather, and elephants. 

On top of the rock, you can see for miles. 

First full day

Chai taken this morning with my guesti dada at the chai mama's up the road. Steaming spiced sugared tea, fresh chapati, and a bowl of beans cooked into deliciousness. We spent the late morning in the sitting room next to the drugstore my dada runs, in addition to the guest rooms in the back courtyard, one of which I'm staying in. I did exercises in my Swahili book while she pored over my dictionaries and folded tiny envelopes to dispense pills in. The sun made its way slowly through the clouds that remained after rain this morning. It was probably in the sixties all day, quite cool. 

We went to Bwana Shamba's (literally "mister farm", village agricultural officer) for lunch. As soon as I walked in my eyes were drawn to two images on the wall: the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and the Last Supper with the slightly awkward but even more poignant translation "I am that Bread of Life" inscribed below. Funny how some pictures on a wall and a familiar blessing before a meal can make you feel at home instantly. Also, the chicken I was served was probably the best I've ever eaten. (Although that might not be saying much, coming from someone who was vegetarian most of her life. :) )

Had soda and cookies at the nurse's house, watched kids play a complicated game for what seemed like hours, was taken by a slightly intoxicated woman to drink tea and talk about God and her children at her house, and then was rescued by my dada to take dinner at Bwana Shamba's again. 

The pressure's on to learn Chasi, the main tribal language here. There is another tribe here in the village that speaks Kirangi, but the majority speak Chasi. Everyone speaks Swahili as well, but when they are conversing it is usually in tribal. Even if I learn a few words it will delight them to no end. I'm on the lookout for a good teacher. :)

All by my onesie

I have been dropped off on my village. I cannot live in my house yet because the latrine isn't finished, so my village chairman is putting me up in the guesti here until I can move into my house. My guesti dada is an awesome girl who's taken me under her wing. My chairman and "bwana shamba" agriculture officer have been attentive to my needs today, namely food and potable water. 

It is raining a lot today. I have been told that I have brought the rain, as it is raining a lot today, a lot more than usual. Many places in this country are struggling at the tail end of a very long dry season and rains that are starting late and light. 

I can't help but feel a bit cosmic and purposeful what with my role as rainmaker. Hopefully this is a good omen of fruitful things to come. :)

Travel days

Yesterday we signed a written oath at the Peace corps office, had our swear-in ceremony at the U.S. embassy, and wrapped up travel logistics for the following day. Our day today started in the wee hours, as our bus from the center we were staying at departed for the main bus station at 3:30 in the morning. We arrived at the bus station, with dark buses turned off and dark kiosks and chai stalls, many people and little light to see by. Peace corps staff ushered us through puddles and past people to our bus, which we boarded and waited until 6:30 to depart on. Our district supervisors boarded this bus as well, as they will be accompanying us to site. 

Needless to say, I did not get much sleep last night, so our bus ride went by in a very long and hot blur of changing scenery, decreasing humidity, and Tanzanian pop music. We found a PCV in town whom we had met before, so we hung out with him for the rest of the afternoon and evening. 

A cool night is calling me to a good night's sleep. 

Changing days

The sun has set on the last day of training. Tomorrow we will become volunteers. 

The day was filled with meeting our district supervisors, attending workshop type lectures, and hanging out with these fellow trainees who in a few short days will be spread throughout Tanzania. 

I wrote letters, we practiced our song medley performance for our ceremony, and one of my fellow trainees gave me some clothing she no longer wants. 

It is hot and humid, and the lethargy of the day caused us to move more slowly than usual. The glass bottles of drinks sweat faster. 

Long sips, slow conversation. Soon we will all be apart. 

We are the waiting

Back to the friendly surrounds of the compound where we first stayed upon arrival to Tanzania. We arrived yesterday evening, after a long journey, the second half of which seemed to be spent sitting in city traffic. It is pretty surreal to have electricity and running (if not entirely potable) water again, after about two months of homestay. Those of us who will be continuing to live without these luxuries are savoring every moment of these short few days before installation at our sites. 

Today several other trainees and I were able to go to a nearby mall to do some shopping. I got a SIM card and groceries - here in Tanzania, when you see an actual grocery store, the it-might-be-weeks-before-I-see-one-of-these-again mentality sets in, and you find yourself reveling in the sprawl of the aisles and the (seemingly) lavish selection of products. There was also a mini bookstore of books in ENGLISH and Swahili, and I picked up a book because I am in desperate need of reading material. Collected popping corn, some brown rice, instant breakfast porridge packets, and all ingredients for a proper cup of tea, and I was on my way. 

When I get to site, as long as I have the necessities to make a good cup of tea and some semblance of breakfast, I have confidence that everything else will fall into place. :)