milk or cottage cheese, its hard to tell ...

this post is destined to be less anecdotal in light of the obstacles facing our project ... fasten your seat belts (as if they have those in tanzania).  november has thrown us a bucket of lemons.  between my malaria (which returned with a vengeance only a week after completing my first round of medication) and the headway we had already made researching sunflower oil production and profit margins, we were indescribably frustrated when the expected "vuli", or short rains, continued to elude us.  rightfully so, the farmers in kikundi resisted our request that they continue cultivating their land for sunflower planting, saying that the sun was simply drying out the soil and there was little hope of precipitation in sight; however, we saw a need to prepare the land in advance of said rains, should the come.  so we began a waiting game ... it was too early to give up on the idea of sunflower, yet all signs were pointing toward this need.  as of december, we decided that even if the rains arrive, january and february will be so hot (ugh) that it will stunt the plant's growth and therefore "haribiko", or destroy, the crop.  and thus, our project idea was suffering the same fate as the maize currently wilting in the fields. 

but one invaluable piece of information derived from the month of november was our observation as to the shift in work amongst the farmers in kwakiliga.  we had become accustomed to a large group of men sitting underneath the community tree at the center of town during the heat of the day, in between their morning and evening "shifts" in the field ... and to women and children selling beautiful produce from baskets at dusk ... and to men eating at the hotelini for breakfast in anticipation of the hard labor they were about to endure ... and to the kikundi members showing up in a timely fashion to our weekly meetings.  yet the heat put an end to these habits.  the produce being sold is small and tired ... and the need to weed or plant is suspended with the change in weather ... and men are opting to sit in the shade of their homes rather than in hotelinis or under the community tree ... and the kikundi members are becoming "no shows" one by one.  we have therefore identified an imperative need to shift the community's mindset, as heat and crop failure needn't be correlative.  we are currently working with kikundi to pivot the group's momentum in a new direction which unifies the ideas of "homesteading" and "permaculture" through the use of household waste water ... abdicating their dependence upon rainfall.  we are in the midst of planning the installation of said plots, and i shall discuss the idea at greater length once the planning "curtain" has been dropped.

to offer something comedic in this post ... we have developed a horrid rat problem which is somewhat of an inevitability given the gaps in our corrugated metal roof.  they've eaten the hot peppers in the kitchen.,chewed through the rope i use to hang cards in my room, and even used my mosquito bednet as a play area.  when rolling over in bed a few weeks ago, i accidentally punched one only a few inches from my face and twice now they have run directly between my feet.  yes, i shrieked.  but a smarter person than myself would have realized that a rat infestation equates to a second and larger problem ... hold your breath!  last week, while i was in korogwe buying rat proofing supplies, sarah called me in a bit of a panic.  she was in the middle of writing a letter to hey boyfriend when she heard a rustling and looked down to see a large, gray, four foot snake slithering between her feet and, in one fell swoop, ran out the front door yelling "Saidi! Njoo! Nyoka! Kubwa!" which translates to "Help! Come! Snake! Big" and the group of men constructing a house next door started running at full speed towards the house with sticks and knives.  they searched for fifteen minutes before finding it in the guest room, astonished as to its size and speed and frantically beating it.  after the head had been severed and the men stood out back smoking cigarettes and congratulating each other, one approached sarah and said "nyoke, mbaya.  mbaya SANA" meaning "snake, bad.  VERY bad."  the experience, however, has given me great appreciation as to the seriousness with which the kwakiligan community values our safety.  lets hope snakes don't travel in twos!

to lighten the seriousness of those sorts of shenanigans, we have adopted a new game we like to call "things you can't explain to a tanzanian", which is proving to be rather hilarious.  um, votives?  sporks?  skydiving?  life is full of practicalities here, so the superfluousness of Western possessions is comedic even to me.  for instance, two days ago i spent the afternoon eating ugali and greens with a woman named joes keah (joes is their spelling for joyce) who kindly offered me milk at the end of my meal.  i accepted, assuming she meant in conjunction with tea as per usual, but instead watched her pour what appeared to be large curds of cottage cheese into a plastic cup ... fat.  in light of this, i think it is safe to add "non-fat milk" to the game's list.  to her, it is a source of energy and sustenance, but to me it is a texture i had to force down despite my gag reflect and, later, apologize to my body for having subjected it to something unpalatable.  stomach of steel!

here's what malaria is like...

its actually not as bad as you might think.  but i might be saying this as one of the lucky ones that avoided strong waves of nausea, which is the PITS!  after six days of being away from Kwakiliga, i was feeling rather guilty at my malaise and time spent indoors until it dawned on me i was tired. really tired.  first, my lymph nodes started swelling and i had an outrageously sore throat (no amount of drinking, eating, or speaking was done without pain).  second, i started waking up later than normal, but still climbing back into bed around 9:00 a.m. after being up for only an hour or two.  third, i had numb headaches and annoying body aches (mostly below the waist).  fourth, i developed a fever that rose 0.1 degrees every 10 minutes or so until i finally reached 101.9 and knew it was time to visit the doctor. 

and that was when i fell in love with kwakiliga all over again.  sarah ran through town asking people if they had rice and beans we could purchase so i would have food in my belly and, since news travels quickly, the town was already well aware of my condition and need for sustenance.  so they practically led her from hotelini to hotelini, duka to duka, until one man in our farmer's group named Yuberi (who LOVES saying "andrea na sarah") took her to a duka and explained "andrea is sick!  she needs food!"  which resulted in a plate of food in an otherwise sparse town.  and in my final few minutes of gathering my belongings before departing, i was approached by both hordes of little kids who were concerned as to my health and also Mzee Adamu (the  sweet farmer who didn't know how many days were in a week), who not long ago offered Sarah some of his land so that she and her "husband" might stay indefinitely, and just yesterday offered to take me in and care for me.  in fact, he seemed surprised i hadn't requested it already. 

the "hospital" was at the former mission and consisted of several rooms, each of which you made a visit to without really knowing the purpose.  reception?  prognosis?  diagnosis?  i came armed with my own sterile needles just in case a blood test was necessary, but luckily the joint was generally quite clean.  and the lab technician, though standing in a random hallway to draw blood samples, wore snazzy shoes ... which is a silly thing to reflect upon but a reliable means of gauging one's professionalism.  ten minutes later, with a piece of paper written in scribbles none of us could understand (despite understanding the language) i reported back to room number two and was diagnosed with malaria ... and told not to look so happy when reporting to the doctor.  smiles are not okay.  its now been 18 hours since my first dose of medication and my fever went from 102.1 last night to 98.5 today ... and my biggest obstacle now is continuing to rest which, to anyone who knows me, is a challenge. 

swim at midnight, sunrise at dawn...

oh, how the mighty blogger has fallen!  sincere apologies for the delay in posting, we've been in the thick of project development and i've resorted to letter writing as opposed to blog writing for my literary outlet.  what else can one do by candle light?  shame on me, you might say ... except if you're amongst the lucky ones to have received said letters in which case thanks for being my comedic (or emotional) outlet.

where to start.  lets just let the picture to the right permeate the forthcoming entry of this blog, which has the following emphasis:  R.E.L.A.X.A.T.I.O.N. 

one of the benefits of a three month Tanzanian visa is the need to cross the Kenyan border in order to renew it.  and what better excuse than this to spend a few days away from the rough and ready lifestyle of Kwakiliga ... 36 hours with little more than a bikini, bottomless tropical fruit smoothies, and turquoise waters.  the current tumultuous political climate seems to have people at home more concerned that the westerners currently residing in Kenya (or at least those living in Mombasa which is perhaps too far south to suffer an attack from Somalia) and i, personally, felt little more than stress leaving my muscles.  it was an eight hour journey (including a border crossing in which we must disembark the bus, check-out of Tanzania and then walk 100 yards into Kenya where we must check-in.  the whole time i was picturing one of those films about refugees who are making their final walk into the country of safe harbor.  except in my version you can buy fresh coconuts on the sidelines from people who speak english).  the beach was splendid, though equatorial sun is rather intense and i now have a bow-shaped mark on my back from my bikini tie.  awkward.  on our final night we managed to dance on the beach until 2:00 a.m., take a dip in the Indian Ocean on the walk home (imagine black water fading into black skies, with fog blurring the horizon line and little more than strong starlight and fishing boats providing light), and awake for a striking sunrise at dawn.  and i ate a lot of cheese. 

and now ... the sunflower saga.  ages ago (really less than a month ago) we finally persuaded a few of the members of the farmer’s group to travel to Handeni with their bags of sunflower seeds to a machine that processes seeds into crude oil, the purpose being to collect the numbers necessary to calculate the profitability of the endeavor ... before structuring a loan to the farmers for the coming season (as many are unable to buy seeds).  to get there, we awoke at 4:30 in the morning and waited at the bus stand (bear in mind this is just a small tree with rocks beneath it) for a passing car to haul us and our loot.  ironically, sitting atop bags of dried fish and onions in the back of a lorrie with a bunch of young Tanzanian men wasn’t an awful way to spend a wednesday morning … better than the jam-packed bus ride i endeavored this morning which was smelly, sweaty, and full of masai herders who insisted upon asking questions and laughing at my expense (until the conductor told them to shut their pie holes because they were hurting his ears).  the information we gathered was this:

• lorries are more expensive for white people than native Africans
• it costs 150 shillings per kilo to clean your sunflower seeds prior to crushing, or 50 shillings for the crushing itself (this seemed illogical until we opted to do the cleaning ourselves and, four hours later, were covered in dust and suffered the same soreness felt after you’ve completed a maddening round of those little arm circles they make you do in gym class)
• each bag of seeds weighs roughly 50 kilos and, once crushed, produces 25% oil (i.e. a 50 kilo bag yields 12.5 liters of oil)
• people in Tanzania don’t necessarily plan for journeys such as these. one farmer neither cleaned her seeds before coming nor helped clean her seeds once in Handeni nor recalled that it was necessary to bring buckets to haul her oil … thus she purchased two and depleted her meager profit
• if you don’t sell your crude oil on the spot, the machine operator won’t offer a second sale since he’s unsure if the oil’s been tampered with
• if you opt to refine your oil further with a second machine, it costs 2,000 shillings a bucket and a second trip to Handeni (which defeats the purpose as you’ve paid for double the journey and must wait 3 days for the dirt to settle on the bottom of the bucket before refining … yet the dirt is redistributed throughout the oil after the rather bumpy second journey to Handeni) 

with the information we gathered, we determined the likelihood of profitability in good and worse conditions and, because we are offering a “group” as opposed to “individual” loan, calculated that even if a small percentage of farmers do well (i.e. 5 out of 16), they are able to cover the loan costs of the entire group and still have a small profit margin.  thus, we drafted a two page document outlining every possible scenario which might affect the sunflower crop or the group’s ability to pay back our loan  and  ... you know what's hard? TRANSLATING LEGAL JARGON ON THE FLY IN SWAHILI TO A GROUP OF GENERALLY UNEDUCATED FARMERS.  baby steps, as bob wylie might say.  

but at the end of the day, its faces like those in the photograph at left that make us thrilled.  that's zuberi ibrahimu,  treasurer of the farmers group and the clint eastwood to our kwakiliga.  upon completing his field cultivation and receiving his seeds, he said "give me one week and return here, i will have my seeds planted".  now that's a good sport.  speaking of good sports ... one last anecdote before signing off.  in an attempt to both better understand the lives of the farmers in Kwakiliga and prove our dedication to improving them, we bought jembays (hand hoes) which were fashioned by a 200 year old man named saki dahi (picture at right) and have been taking to the fields on a daily basis (don't believe me? ask for a picture of my callouses).  on one fateful day, i took a swing with the hoe and heard a faint chirp, only to see a tiny, featherless, newborn bird lying on the ground with one wing distorted and beak open from stress.  what does one do in this situation?  CRY.  CRY LIKE A LITTLE GIRL.  i very seriously considered taking it home with me, as though my actions had earned me the responsibility of keeping the sweet thing alive ... that is, until the farmer whose land i was working said "why are you crying?  that bird will grow up and eat my sunflowers!"  can't argue that point.

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"

how many days are in the week, you ask ...

its proving to be a bit of a challenge to write two weeks worth of happenings into a single post.  the obstacle is less about the volume of information and more about my short term memory.  but this i can tell you without question: i. am. lucky.  i remember this often, and not just in terms of relative wealth ... but that people PAID for me to be here!  this reality never ceases to amaze me, like the the other night when i rode on the back of a pikipiki at dusk ... out of the plains and into the foothills with blue skies above and red dirt below.  

Kwakiliga continues to be a source of rejuvenation. the community members are a delight and it seems as though i have a new favorite each day.  Mariamu, a curvy lady with an infectious smile, operates the hotelini next to my home and puts a skip in my step most mornings.  don't be deceived by the word "hotel" in "hotelini" as it stands for 1) an inn 2) a restaurant 3) a community sitting space 4) a bar and so on ... yet it consists of only one small table, two benches, and a coal stove.  she came to our house one afternoon to teach us to make a tortilla-like bread called chapati, which is one of the most involved preparatory culinary adventures as of late and, naturally, we make it daily.  (davis folks:  it's reminiscent to the micaela tortillas out of woodland and yes, Danny and Lexi, i can buy coarse salt, avocado, and lime).  Adamu, my newest favorite, lives at the village's edge nearest to the farmlands.  he seems highly uneducated, or at least i presume since he was unable to answer the question "how many days are in a week?"  and  has  only a few front teeth which makes it rather difficult to understand him.   in hindsight, i harbor a bit of guilt for naming his dog "Theo" ... or "Seo" as he pronounces it.


the kids are also constantly teetering between being unbearably annoying and utterly endearing, which makes it all the more difficult to be angry when they are little you-know-whats.  since we continue to be more regular fixtures in the community, they are a little less enthralled by our presence, and thus tend to leer through the windows with less frequency ... and they are increasingly comfortable with initiating conversations, which is a dramatic improvement from the following:  THEM: "Andelea" ME: "bei" (meaning the feminine "yes") THEM: silence.  it also means they tend to take us a little less seriously, especially since unlike their parents we won't abuse them when they misbehave.  one little boy in particular likes to test us by taking a plastic bottle and dragging it against our cement porch to make a sound worse than nails on a chalkboard.  when we yell "toka" meaning leave, he simply laughs and says "sitoki" meaning i won't leave.  though with all of their attempts to try our patience, there are a handful that i'm planning to stick in my pack and bring home after i've freed up some room.


the pictures i've included in this post are from an event at Mama Halima's house ... for those of you who aren't aware of our trying relationship with the woman, we somewhat facetiously refer to her as our "mother in law" ... a name she earned when she began disapprovingly sweeping our unkempt floors.  she stopped by one morning asking if we'd like to come to a singing event at her house and, thinking it was just another rendition of the traditional Islamic songs practiced nightly in our backyard, we loosely agreed.  i.  was.  wrong.  her entire yard was covered with mzees (elders) and watoto (children) and it wasn't until sitting in the living room with the somber women that we began to question the purpose of the festivities which ... up until that point ... we thought were celebratory.  when we asked Mama Halima she said "baba, alikufa".  with jaws dropped, we realized that her father had passed away and this was his funeral.  its moments like those that make us value this community because even when facing hardship and strife, they exude cheer.  i could learn a thing or two (as could we all).

those weren't lentils, they were beans...

gosh.  it's approaching two in the morning but i can't tear myself away from the computer as it's the first time in weeks that my internet stick is shining "blue" meaning "fast" connection.  i'm jubilant at notion that i've just  completed my list of online "to do's" in a single sitting, a task which until this evening was stagnated by my standard measurement of time: one page loading per five minutes of thumb twiddling.  my patience is both being tested and built!

with one month out of eight under my belt, i can hardly wait to begin digging into project development in kwakiliga.  i've adapted quickly to the environment (thanks dad, for  preparing me with our somewhat torturous and extended camping trips) as well as our daily routines: get buckets of water from the spiggot at the center of town.  get laughed at by women and children capable of carrying said buckets on their head rather gracefully while i lug mine off balance.   prepare three meals a day on a kerosene stove and identify where raw ingredients (if any) can be purchased.  practice Swahili both in the comfort of my unfurnished home and by initiating conversations with community members who are patient enough not to laugh when I say something as eloquent as "you.  maize.  good?"

the village itself is poor in income but rich in culture.  it is Tanzanian custom to welcome people ... to the country, to the town, to the store ... I can hardly walk a few feet without someone saying "karibou nyumbani" meaning you're welcome to our house.  the danger is depending upon the hour of the day, you may well be convinced to stay for dinner and served a seemingly large portion of food, which is actually the amount consumed by their entire family.  hunger is very present.  there is one particularly innovative farmer in the village named Mzee Mcharo, our "baba" or father, who seems to be able to provide for himself and others who are less fortunate through innovative and diversified farming.  some of my favorite mornings have been spent with his family under the shade tree on their property.  their youngest daughter Magdalena was shy at first and i wondered if teaching her tic tac toe might set her at ease ... so, grabbing a stick, i drew a game in the dirt and made her observe as my partner Sarah and i played.  not only did she understand AND get excited, but she taught us a Tanzanian version that is FAR superior and will certainly be coming home with me.  

this past week also marked the end of Ramadan and, as the majority of our village is Muslim i have been woken most mornings at 5:00 a,m. by young boys from the community rising people for prayer.  but on the sikuku (meaning holiday) i awoke at 12:30 a.m. to drums and singing right outside my window ... the enthusiasm of which permeated even the following day's activities.  it's like Muslim Christmas!  everyone gets new clothes, eats an absurd bounty of food (i had four carb loaded meals before the afternoon), and celebrate together with song, dance, and a heated shirts vs skins soccer match.  we felt fortunate to be so welcomed to a celebration quite different from the previous weekend's three hour church service (like i said, building patience) and are feeling more integrated into the community daily ... though i've hardly forgotten the community i've forged at home and hope that any readers will send letters my way:

PO Box 506

Korogwe, Tanga

Tanzania

East Africa

Kwakiligan eve, recapping the travels...

now that i'm finally adjusted to the time change in Tanzania and have a wee break from my Swahili studies, i'm going to do my damnedest to share my stories from East Africa thus far.  i made it to Dar Es Salaam on Friday morning (last week) and though i'm no stranger to long flights, this one seemed especially taxing.  the summer had been a whirlwind of preparations before my departure and to add to my already exhausted state, i began my journey with two nights of near sleeplessness (a mere three hours of snoozing between them).  the first leg was delayed and the second and third legs were long but i had the amazing fortune of seeing my friend Carlene for lunch in London ... we've not seen each other since her wedding four years ago this April. 

landing in Dar Es Salaam was a bit of a shock, as the city (dare i say) has little redeeming value.  at least that's my impression from the two day's time i was afforded.  the airport is small and cramped but apparently the pride of the city.  the taxis all have broken seats and doors that won't open without the proper manhandling.  the city center's streets are both unpaved and pockmarked, so the rains turn it into an smelly and sloshy mess.  with what i've since learned about Tanzanian history, i wasn't the least bit surprised to learn that India has a strong presence in the country in general and Dar in specific.  its coastal locale along the Indian Ocean trade route landed many Indian immigrants in Dar and it isn't uncommon to meet a person of Indian decent whose family spanned seven generations of Tanzanians.  the streets remind me very much of Chennai, as does the traffic: buses whose aisles are uncomfortably packed with people, bicycles hauling seven layers of eggs or bags of charcoal, and modest dress that shows neither shoulders nor legs.  on our first day, we did little more than eat dinner and beetlenut digestives (also an Indian regularity), but on the second day we traveled to  Kariakoo, Tanzania's largest market.  it is three stories of goods, the basement of which houses some of the loveliest produce and, incidentally, some of the strongest odors.  one of the 2Seeds project teams will be stationed there for the purpose of increasing the lines of communication between small subsistence farmers (like those i'll be working with in Kwakiliga) and vendors ... capitalizing on a connection pioneered by one of last year's teams whose farmers altered their entire production system upon seeing the high prices an urban market can reap.  therein lies the power of information sharing.

after my travels of late, Kariakoo didn't seem nearly as overwhelming as we were warned, however i was keenly aware of how conspicuous we were arriving as a bus of "wazungus" without 45 Tanzanians crammed into our aisles or some derivation of a Jesus Christ logo hanging from the bumper.  or even worse, how excessive it was being parked in front of quite honestly the skinniest man i have ever seen  who was confined to a wheelchair because his muscles were too weak to carry him and his face was so taut he couldn't close his lips.  i became quite concerned that this foreshadowed my future in Kwakiliga and it is a thought i continue to fear and harbor. 

after Dar was a long bus journey to the north, specifically to the town of Korogwe which is most commonly known as half way point (and bus depot break) between Dar and the wealthier urban city Arusha.  love.  it.  here.  the town is small, the people are friendly, the size is manageable, and the baby goats are cute as all heck.  i've already been here a week and am regretting not having posted a blog sooner ... since much can be forgotten in one week's time, but truth be told we spent most of our days learning Swahili and eating vegetable curry on repeat so i can narrate the best stories in a few short anecdotes.  on Wednesday, we traveled by truck to Magoma, the site of last year's successful school shamba (farm) project that converted a few acres of unused land into a profitable venture that subsidized meals for the school children.  it is hard to gauge poverty be any normal standard, because visuals are counter-intuitive to the smiles, enthusiasm, and generosity so seamlessly exuding from the villagers.  they will quite literally offer you everything they have and do so with a smile, because your presence is a blessing.  i hear this often.  the children are hams, and as it is common to hold hands in Tanzanian culture (most often men and men, occasionally women and women) i could hardly walk without having a line of 5 kids on either side of me and another 20 bringing up the rear.  my favorite trick was to answer the Kisambaa tribe in their own dialect, which is lesser known, and brings the loudest laughter even amongst the elderly. 


just yesterday, after an exhausting day at the sokoni (market) i spent the afternoon with our Korogwe babu (grandfather) and before meeting him, i was warned he would hug me aggressively and might grab my face ... and then slap it.  which is exactly what happened.  a jovial muslim man no larger than 5 foot 2 who could not stop giggling at my laugh and how it reminded him of a German missionary named Andrew Mischnik who passed through years ago.  for the next hour, whenever i so much as smirked, he would either grab my chin  at the most awkward of moments, slap my back, stick my head in his armpit while slapping my face, or any combination thereof ... all with a hearty laugh.  Sarah, to whom babu referred to as "marsoom" f(rom an old Tanzanian dialect meaning cherub or angelic baby) and i have decided to cease calling this blog "the kwakiliga project" and instead call it "the adventures of Mischnik and Marsoom".  quite rightly.


on the eve of my journey to Kwakiliga, i feel ready.  i feel as though preparations have been so extensive that i want to "live" it rather than hear about it.  the last two days of gathering supplies and food and home furnishings was an exhausting endeavor with my rough and unconfident Swahili, but with my trusty partner Sarah by my side we managed to acquire everything from millet flour to kerosene, local candles to nascar drinking glasses, sunflower oil to curtains.  oh, and did i mention seeing a Saddam Hussein shirt in the process?  with that, i'll be incommunicado for 2 weeks, and wish dearly i could both write more frequently and upload photos to the blog (korogwe and internet speed are in a bit of a disagreement, i fear).  in the meantime, please do send comments and words of encouragement, as i'm shortly entering a village with language barriers, regular water shortages (the taps quite literally run dry), and a dearth of "me time".  positivity welcome!