hurt my arse on an armrest...

i simply couldn't think of a better way to encapsulate last week's journey to Korogwe than with that "title".  it marked the first day in weeks that we were able to board a bus which a) arrived at a convenient hour and b) wasn't packed to the brim, though i did find myself sitting in the very back row, left corner seat, right above the wheel well and unable to shake the outkast lyrics "back of the bus" from my mind.  now, this road is normally bumpy but this trip redefined the term and, having grown accustomed to the regularity of being tossed from my seat due to the proximity of the wheel wheel and the bumpiness of the roads, my fellow teenage passengers and i were caught by surprise when we were launched a good two feet up out of our chairs (emphasis on "up") ... and i landed upon my arm rest.  got the bruise to prove it.

the last few weeks have been both trying and rewarding, as they have catapulted me into a sense of self confidence and comfort in Kwakiliga that i previously strove for.  having come to terms with the reality that no matter how swimmingly sarah and i get along, we need an identity apart from each other as well as continued contact from our support network back home (this would be a passive request for more regular contact, folks, as empty inboxes are becoming depressing).  so in a few short weeks, i have  found ways to feel more empowered ... such as locating a running path through the remote farmlands at the edge of town. each and every time i feel as though i'm doing a strip tease as i shed my skirt and expose the leggings beneath.  the news of my kukimbia (running) has spread like wildfire through the village and i can only assume the select farmers and bikers i pass on my otherwise secluded trail have spread rumors.  

and, at the risk of sounding elementary, i'm making friends!  swahili is finally progressing to a point that i'm receiving compliments on my understanding and, better yet, am able to shoot the proverbial "you know what" with the ladies in town.  they are fierce.  one spitfire named mayassa mussa was sitting on our front porch, despite it being covered in gravel and red dirt which is a BIG "no no" in tanzanian culture.  like many before her, she hassled us to sweep so she could kupumzika (rest) on the cement  during the heat of the day and the hilarity that ensured is hard to due justice in words alone.  we explained that the little terrors (i.e. kids) in town spend hours playing in the dirt in front of our house and, no matter how often we clean, they destroy our efforts by building roads and canals out of sticks and gravel by the time we've walked back to the house.  one of them walked by the back door a few days back with a perfectly gray goatee, and it took me a moment to realize he had been eating unused cement mix.  what's more, we facetiously reenacted the children throwing rocks beneath our door, leering through the windows asking what we're cooking, lying on their bellies to see us in the hallway and narrate our activities, etc.  mayassa, diva that she is, called over the two oldest girls and said, in swahili of course, "tomorrow, you will come here and sweep this porch.  then you will bring water and clean it.  you will do this."  then looking at us, "they will do this."  if all else fails, ain't no shame in hitting them., right? when in tanzania ...


now ... for some bullet pointed anecdotes about tanzanian culture. 

• men seem incapable of zipping their flies
• even 6 year olds are able to peel an orange with a knife in a single long strand
• one woman, Joes (i.e. Joyce) Keah makes tea that tastes like the milk left over from a bowl of fruit loop.  and her biceps rival Mike Tyson
• the Swahili clock operates 6 hours behind, so when people tell you its 10:00 it is actually 4:00
• the first time i saw another white person, i flipped my sh** and understood why people stare at me
• the shirts are priceless, mostly ironic ones you'd never see worn back home.  case in point: button-up collared shirt with a repetitive pattern of Saddam Hussein's face
• most homes are made out of mud bricks, and alarmingly often people pick off pieces and eat it.  our favorite is a woman, 9 months pregnant, who calls it "nutritious" and "good for the baby"