It takes a village

            The electricity is out again. The family had brought in a woman trained in the art to lead the ceremony. With the help of the house girls, they all surround Catie, my young host sister of 6, carefully picking at her head but still cautious not to block the candle light. Every few seconds, the two blades of the scissors come together with a resounding “click”. I sitting a few meters away on the couch, trying to eat dinner. As the steam rises off of my meal, I am mystified. I had wondered about the actual actions, but this was my first time witnessing anyone getting extensions.

            My first day walking the streets, I was a little shocked to see that almost every single child under the age of 10 had a very short buzz. My only clue to the sex of the kids is their school uniforms: shorts for a boy, a skirt for a girl. Slightly puzzled to why the girls have short hair I tried to come up with an explanation. Only later did one of the other Cornellians explain that everyone keeps their hair very short so they do not get lice. To make up for the lack of natural hair, a lot of the women and girls get extensions or put their natural hair in tight braids that run along their scalps in varying directions.

            What captivated my attention the most from the extensions process was the way in which everyone chipped in to help. Although the house girls could have spent this choice amount of free time relaxing, they both decided to help the woman with Catie’s hair. This helping sentiment seems to be prominent throughout Moshi.

            Lincoln, the 1 year old, can be a handful at times. However, this doesn’t stop the whole household from taking care of him. And by whole family, I mean the two house girls, the parents, young daughter, and even the guard. I would expect, and hope, that a child’s immediate family would take care of their blood, but I wouldn’t really expect this of a man whose sole job is to watch the property for thieves. This Saturday, when I came back from town, I was greeted by the guard who was bouncing Lincoln on his knee.

            I was trying to express how everyone in the house cares for Lincoln when one of my peers in Tanzania stated that the same thing happened in her house with a young child named Ibu. I have met Ibu before and he looks like a 2 year old version of Jay-Z (Brenna has a picture of him with her sunglasses on and he looks incredible). Initially I thought that Ibu was another child of Brenna and Kathy’s house mom, but it turns out that Ibu is living with his grandmother, who resides in the house directly behind Brenna and Kathy’s. Although Ibu isn’t directly related to their host mom, Mamma Grace, this doesn’t stop her from feeding and taking care of him. I would expect the same from an American mother who has a neighbor roughly the same age as one of her children, but Ibu is 5 years younger then the youngest in Mama Grace’s family.  

            I wonder if it is the hardships these people go through that draw them closer, or they are just generally nicer and more caring people. Whatever the cause, I’m happy that there are multiple sets of eyes looking over Lincoln and Ibu so that one day, they can become the next leaders of Tanzania. Hopefully then, they won’t have to live their lives continually contracting malaria, an infection that my house father and Brenna and Kathy’s host father have contracted over the last few weeks. 

Lincoln & Catherine.... But Mainly Lincoln

Hanging with the kids

Tanzanian Vittles

African food. Try to conjure up that image. I had no idea what I would be eating for two months this summer, but now I am very familiar.

My first experience with Tanzanian cuisine was actually at Cornell toward the end of the spring semester. I was taking a semester-long prep course for the trip and we were all invited to eat lunch one Saturday at our professor’s house. Lunch was prepared by two Cornellians who spent 13 weeks last summer volunteering at the Weill-Bugando hospital in Mwanza, Tanzania. They cooked ugali, a polenta-like paste made from corn, a shredded collard greens-ish dish, and an egg dish that had red peppers and cheese. Unfortunately, I haven’t had this egg dish yet.

Unlike the variety of foods that my incredible cook of a mother makes, and the interesting dishes the infamous Deb produces, I have had basically the same meals every day. During my first breakfast with my host family, I was greeted by a large spread of hard boiled eggs, hotdogs (this seems to be a morning food item), tea, natural orange juice, bread, butter, and jelly. I poured my self a cup of the tea, let it cool, and then tried the jelly. The first wave of flavor was intense. I think the closest description would be to take a fruit medley jelly from the U.S., add a cup of sugar and Gatorade’s Fruit Punch ready-mix powder. I continued to eat the jelly for a while, until I felt like it was eating the enamel off my teeth. I starting bringing a jar of peanut butter to the table, and it eventually made it into the breakfast rotation. I really enjoy hard boiled eggs, but two every morning are starting to take its toll on my taste buds. I am thinking about waking up early to cook myself an omelet or some scrambled eggs.

Unlike the U.S. system of 3 meals daily, the Tanzanians have added half a meal in between breakfast and lunch, known as Tea. One thing that I am not sick of is the Tanzanian tea. Locally grown, the flavor is unlike anything else I have tasted. Most of the locals drink it with whole milk but I prefer a cup with a spoon of sugar. With tea, it is common to have some form of fried dough. It’s pretty interesting to note that at one of the most respected medical campuses in Tanzania, there are no baked or boiled goods sold at the campus Canteen. The one healthy alternative is a bowl of fruit salad that is not always available.

For lunch, I have had some form of banana and / or rice every day. The lunch places make a dish called “pilau”, which is seasoned rice and beef that tastes pretty good. Ndizi is another dish that I like, which is cooked bananas, covered in a somewhat salty banana sauce and beef. With one of these meals comes a form of vegetable, sometimes the collard green that I mentioned above, or often shredded cabbage. There is also a complementary piece of uncooked banana which I think is the highlight of the meal. I have never tasted such good bananas. The Chagga, the prominent tribe in the Moshi area, are known to make most of their essentials out of the banana plant (food, beer, houses, etc) and I think they have perfected the art of banana growing.

Dinner everyday is basically the same. The meal is usually rice covered with a sauce, vegetables, and a meat. The meat is either chicken, fish, or beef, but most often beef. The fish is… interesting. I think the first time I had the fish was about two weeks ago on a sunny Wednesday. As I was walking back from KCMC, I passed a woman sitting on the side of the road selling whole, roasted fish about 6 – 8 inches in length. I’m not much of a fish person and but I wasn’t the first to say that these fish did not look very appetizing. I thought about the lack of local water sources in the area, and then tried to dispel the thought of eating the animal. That night, atop my heap of rice was one of those fish, cooked in some type of spice. Not to upset my hosts, I ate as much as I could, but did not come close to sucking out the eyeballs as did my host parents. It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but I would rather eat as little of it as possible.

To me, the highlight of dinner is dessert. Where as Americans most often enjoy foods like ice cream, cake or cookies for dessert, the Tanzanians choose to eat fresh fruit. Although they have many more seeds then the fruit I normally eat back home, I think the fruits I have eaten here have more flavor and possess a natural sweetness that I don’t taste in America.

Overall I have enjoyed all the foods I have eaten so far, but am looking for a change. I look forward to Thursdays when the Cornell students go to our professor’s house and she bakes us some sort of American dessert. The first time we had cookies, followed by strawberry shortcake, and then last week was chocolate-zucchini cake. I am hoping this time it will be cookies again, or if I had my choice, Popsicles. I also heard that one of the Cornell girls brought some Gatorade mix, so I’ll have to investigate that. Hopefully, next weekend’s trip to Zanzibar will bring out some new dishes.

Additional bracelet. I traded the coffee bean one for this one. Technically #5

More Pictures

As per a request, here are some pictures of my living quarters

The family room

My room / bed

Front of the house

Host family's banana trees

Pathway to my host family's house

New Bracelet. Aquired in deal for other gifts

Roman Catholics, Second in the Eastern Division

This Sunday, I went with my house mother, Lincoln, and the house girl to church. Unbeknownst to be before I arrived in Moshi, but my host family is fairly religious. I may have mentioned this before, but I often come home to see my Mama Catherine watching the gospel channel on TV.

This week’s service was a little different then last weeks. Last Sunday was the Pentecost and the church was significantly fuller. Although a there was a good amount of Tanzanians there this week, no one had to sit in sections that were actually outside the church.

The building itself is fairly small, at least according to American Roman Catholic standards. Arranged in the classic cross formation, each of the three wings looking at the alter area have about 30 pews. Mama Catherine likes to sit to the right of the altar, probably because when Bwana Theophile is home, he sings in the choir which is located in that wing.

Opposed to the elegant buttresses and arches of large churches I have seen, this particular one has ceiling tiles, occasional colored yellow, turquios-ish green, and red in the shape of crosses. If they are working, the ceiling fans spin freely and add a cool and soft breeze to the chamber. There is a number of stained glass, although there are no scenes in the glass. The colored glass is either arranged in a mixture of purples, yellows, greens and pinks, or complementary colors in the shape of what else but a cross.

When everything began around 10:30am, I couldn’t help notice the similarities between the service and a basketball game. It sounds like a weird connection but it kind of fits. Here goes the explanation:

On the interior walls of the edifice hang pictures of Christ, like banners of past championships or advertisements preaching life lessons. The pews, or short wooden bleachers, wait for the spectators and are filled at random. At the center of the three wings is tile, or hardwood, that is separated from the churchgoers by a low metal barricade. The music, brought to you by the choir, provides entertainment before the actual action begins and announces the start of the ceremony.

Although there is only one team in this game, the players come in one at a time, waiting for their cues from the choir. First come the bench players and main assist leaders on the team, the alter boys. Swinging the golden Censer, one presents the game ball to the audience. I envisioned these young kids as tiny fragments of Scottie Pippen, ready to help out the superstar. They kneel at the altar waiting for the rest of the team.

Next comes the badass, the one who likes to look different, the Dennis Rodman of the team. With his sweet brown cloak and hood, like an outfit from Monty Python’s The Holy Grail, he arrives at the altar next, kneels and waits.

Last and certainly not least, here’s the superstar. I think the choir’s music is slightly different at this point. I hear them saying “number 23, Mmmiiiiccchhhaaaeeellll Jjjjjooooorrrrddddaaaannnn!!!”. In strides the priest, clad in an all white garb, decorated with two small chalices on the very front, the hero of the team. He kneels at the altar, says a few words and instead of chest-bumps, they all rise in unison.

The choir ends its singing and the game is underway. I don’t exactly know what went on most of the time, mainly because the entire service was in Kiswahili and I’m still not fluent. However, I did understand a little, mainly the words “takatifu” which means saint, and “kazi”, the word for work.

About halfway through the service, after a few iterations of the crowd standing and kneeling, I decided it was halftime. And what happens at but the cheerleaders, or nuns, entertain the crowd while the team takes a quick break. One of the sisters walks up to represent the entire squad and begins a sermon on family. I think I understood something about it doesn’t necessarily matter the size of the family, as long as it is close and everyone loves one another. But I could be completely wrong. Her speech is a little long and I can see a few members of the audience nodding off. But they didn’t come to see the cheerleaders; they came to see the Lebron James of their Roman Catholic Church perform.

Michael Jordan said a few more prayers and the choir chipped in. And then, Dennis Rodman got a few rebounds in the form of a monotone prayer that lasted about 2 minutes. The small Scottie Pippens helped by ringing a bell, bringing in the Censer, and holding the Bible for Michael. The entire service was definitely a team effort.

Towards the end of the service, the team asked if any of the fans would donate to their cause. The majority of the congregation said yes in the form of Tanzanian shillings. I even decided to kick in about 100 Tzs. And at the very end of the service was communion. I thought that since I am not a loyal fan of this team, I shouldn’t receive Christ’s body so I sat in my seat while Mama Catherine went and received her portion. I didn’t sit alone, as the house girl did not receive communion as well.

All in all, I thought it was a fine service. I enjoyed the singing from the choir, probably because I didn’t really understand what they were saying and they harmonized well. The Waiters would be proud, but I don’t think it was quite up to their standards. Taking an anthropological view of the experience definitely helped me get through an event that I would probably not have gone to otherwise.

Thinking about religion in this country, I wonder about its origins. When did people start to say, “Yea, our tribal views are silly. We should believe in your religion, with only one guy who has supernatural powers”. I imagine that mission trips have something to do with it. I would think that Islam would have a larger pull in the mainland, as the Arabs made a larger influence in Tanzania’s history from the beginning. For example, many of the Swahili words have Islamic origins. I should talk to Bwana Theophile’s father, Babu Theophile (babu means grandfather) since Bwana Theophile said his grandfather was Muslim.

I was thinking about going to an Islamic service while in Tanzania, to see something that I have never witnessed before. Maybe my globetrotting cousin who also went to Cornell could give me some advice?

All in all, I see religion as an extremely interesting topic. I don’t really want to express all of my views on the subject, as I might offend some people. However, if you do practice, good for you and I hope that turns out for the best. To put all of your faith into actions from thousands of years ago is truly a strong belief. And if you don’t regularly practice, then I’m right there with you.

Health in Tanzania

In my first blog entry, I wrote a little about the course I am taking while in Tanzania. During the second week of class, we were given a presentation about the healthcare system of Tanzania by Dr. Njau, one of the doctors and professors at Kilimanjaro Christian Medical College. In his presentation, he stated that the healthcare system was failing at the link between regional and referral hospitals. In order for the system to function effectively, individuals should first be seen by the district hospitals and if they can not handle the case, they are directed to the referral hospitals. KCMC is one of the few referral hospitals in the north-eastern region of Tanzania. However, many are skipping the district hospitals and going straight to the referral hospitals.

To respond to my question as to why exactly the system was failing, Dr. Njau responded with a number of reasons. For one, the surrounding population knows that referral hospitals like KCMC have better facilities and often better personnel. Secondly, the regional hospitals are often understaffed, as the best doctors like to stay at hospitals with superior facilities. Thirdly, the doctors at the regional hospitals receive the same wage no matter the number of patients they see, so they often refer as many patients as they can to referral hospitals in order to work less. Such added numbers are increasing the burden on the doctors and facilities at the referral hospitals. I was able to see KCMC in action during the early part of this past week.

Last Saturday, all of the Cornell University students and a Cornell professor in Moshi for the week decided to take a tour of traditional Chagga culture. (The Chagga are the most prevalent tribe in the north-eastern region of Tanzania. All of Cornell students are staying with Chagga families). During the tour, we saw a traditional Chagga dwelling, crept into a cave that the women and children would hide in during battles with the Maasai, and were briefly told how to make the traditional Chagga brew, mbege, which is made from bananas. Most of the things the Chagga traditionally ate, made, constructed, etc. came from the banana tree.

After the next morning, I noticed that I had some sort of rash on the inner regions of my arms, between my forearm and biceps. I thought it was some reaction to a bug or an allergy that had been triggered during the tour. Suspecting that it would go away shortly, I put some Cortisone cream on it and tried to ignore it.

Tuesday came and it had gotten worse. It had spread to the abdominal region of my torso and oddly enough, no where else. After explaining my condition to one of my professors, she said that we would go to the dermatology department during a class break. 11 o’clock came and we headed the short distance to the clinic. My professor said she knew the head doctor in dermatology and began to search for this illusive doctor. Returning a few minutes later, I was told that the dermatology clinic is not open on Tuesdays or Thursdays. I guess people don’t get skin issues those days.

Stating that she knew a general practitioner (GP), she made a phone call and we headed up to the central hospital. Walking up various flights of stairs, we passed a wide array of people. There were a few Maasai, with their shaved heads and enlarged earlobe holes, walking into the eye clinic, to young children being wheeled around on gurneys, to elderly men waiting by the pharmacy. I had taken a tour of the hospital, visiting a number of wards, but being a patient had a different feel.

At the fourth flight, we walked into an office filled with ex-pats. I was escorted to a corner of the room and given a very informal examination. After a few questions and a few pokes, the doctor stated that it was most likely a fungal issue and I should use the Lotramin that I had brought with me. Walking back to the classroom, by stomach began to itch again.

The next day, Wednesday, I told the professor that I wanted to go to the dermatology clinic, as the itching hadn’t stopped. The professor couldn’t go with me again so she asked a Tanzanian student to accompany me. Peter, a 25-ish Tanzanian with an ever-present gapped-tooth grin, said that he would help me. Walking to the clinic, Peter said we would take a small detour to grab his medical coat. With the coat, he claimed, he looked more official, and we would later need his doctor persona.

The first stop was to the file office where I had to open a file. So now, if I get sick again, I’ll have a medical file in Tanzania. And I guess there is now some legal document / proof that I actually went to Africa. The file clerk wanted to charge me more then the 4000 Tanzanian shillings (Tsh. Roughly $3) to open the file, but I told Peter that another Cornell student had opened a file for that amount so the 4000 was paid and the file was created. We then headed to the dermatology clinic where instead of waiting among the other Tanzanians with some sort of skin issue, Peter escorted me through a hallway among examination rooms. He said that I should wait here while he found a doctor. As he searched, I tried to avoid the obvious fact that I was out of place and shouldn’t have been standing awkwardly in the hallway, within direct eyesight of the Tanzanians I had skipped in line. I was feeling guilty, but still itchy.

After some pleading and being dragged into another examining room to learn a little more dermatology, Peter escorted me into a room where a Rwandan doctor was just finishing up with an elderly Tanzanian woman in a brightly patterned body wrap. Taking a seat, I began to describe my issue to the doctor. He said that it was probably allergic eczema and after writing a script, I should come back in a week as a checkup.

Leaving the clinic and picking up a cream, we headed to a specific pharmacy that could administer the pills I had to take. Waiting for the pills, I finally felt that I wasn’t cheating the system. I had to wait my turn, among the locals for my medication. I wasn’t receiving any special treatment that the woman with her tiny infant to my left, or the grey-haired man to my right couldn’t get. I was back among the general public. (The cream was about 1000 Tsh and the pills 1500. The whole trip cost about $5)

Before I had taken this adventure as a patient at KCMC, my professor had used the term “white privilege”, meaning that no one really questioned your actions if you were white at KCMC. As other local youths were being stopped by KCMC security, the Cornellians quietly walked past. At the hospital, this “white privilege” had truly taken shape. I was brought to the front of lines and skipped people that probably had more severe problems than me. I feel bad about this fact and slightly ashamed that I had let it happen, especially as a hopefull doctor, I should be aiding those that need care, and not skipping them to get care myself. I wonder if I had been a Tanzanian myself and a friend of Peter’s, would he have taken the same strides to ensuring such speedy treatment as he did for me, the white American? Possibly. And if so, then a phrase I hear back in America rings true. It’s not necessarily what you know, but the people you know.

Some Pics....

The view from the new building being constructed at KCMC

The third bracelet

Kilimanjaro.....

Infrastructure - Or lack there of

I’m beginning to feel more at home in my homestay and in Moshi. Although I am still receiving a lot of stares while walking to class, I receive a lot of friendly greetings. However, I will not begin to let my guard down.

Not a huge amount has happened since my last post. My group members and I have started to develop our own case study that we will examine throughout the next three weeks. We have chosen the topic of “Health & Body Image” in Tanzania and will focus on the social conceptions of body image, as well as creating recommendations that will encourage healthier consumption choices.

Traveling into the central town of Moshi, my fellow white students and I receive a lot of attention from the street peddlers. Waving strands of beaded bracelets and necklaces, they continually say that they will give you a “great price” for their items. Last Friday, we all went to the city and I bought a small bracelet from a young Tanzanian who brought me into his shop to show me his paintings.

While waiting for a daladala (crowded van that serves as public transportation) ride back toward the hospital / our classroom, another street peddler tried to entice me into buying another bracelet. Beginning to tell him that I already had one, I thought it’d be interesting to see if I could trade him. I wasn’t extremely interested in the bracelet I currently had and looking back I think the trade worked out in my favor.

I have now developed a game that I play with the local peddlers. It involves trying to see how often I can trade for a new bracelet without spending any money. Today in town I managed to trade for a new one which is made entirely of coffee beans. I have posted a picture of it on this blog. It is my third bracelet thus far. The second one had coffee beans and yellow, black, and blue beads, while the first was slightly thicker and had red, green and yellow smaller beads and large pink beads. Not my favorite. I’ll try to take a picture of every bracelet I acquire. Hopefully this game will add some enjoyment to the tiring act of dealing with the street vendors.

Also, I finally found a gym in Moshi. After class this Monday, I ran to the Agme Lodge with Brenna and Chelsea and we signed up for a monthly membership to a fairly small gym. I wasn’t really concerned about the equipment, as I was simply happy to have some weights to swell with.

Over the course of my trip, one thing that has come to my attention is the infrastructure of Tanzania. Turning from a popular street to a side road, the ground turns from tarmac to compacted dirt and rock. The prevalence of rock creates very bumpy car rides and unhappy joints during runs. This lack of infrastructure also creates economic difficulties that businesses can not afford.

This past Saturday, I went on a tour of traditional Chagga culture with Professor Moseley and the other Cornell students. There had been a few light showers early that morning, creating a thin layer of mud on the unpaved roads. While taking a rented bus to the tour location, the bus got stuck in the mud, tires spinning, sliding centimeters at a time down the slope. At one point, I stepped out of the bus to help a group of local men push the automobile up the hill. To avoid an additional delay to our trip, we ended up walking to the tour location.

If the roads and other infrastructural issues on the way to the tour location were addressed, it would definitely increase the amount of tourism that could reach the remote location. Also, it would make the local coffee growers in these areas more accessible to coffee traders, thus promoting the general economy.

Along with the dirt roads throughout Moshi, I have noticed a lot of trash scattered throughout the streets and walkways. Where does all this trash end up? Probably in the drinking water and crops that lie within meters of the trash piles. If sanitation practices of this area were increased, it would help to relieve the health demand on the local health workers as well as possibly increase the agricultural yield of the local farms.

I think I mentioned this in my last post, but at the beginning of my trip I began reading “Mountains beyond Mountains” by Tracy Kidder. The book is about the life of the famous Paul Farmer, founder of Partners In Health. Dr. Farmer has his M.D. as well as his PhD in anthropology and spent a majority of his undergraduate and graduate life in Cange, Haiti working to promote the health of the towns’ inhabitants. The author states that Dr. Farmer continually expressed how easily the town could be improved if it had adequate infrastructure, such as paved roads, running water or sanitation. An entire town can be revitalized with simple improvements in infrastructure. I guess these issues are potential projects that I can work on if I return to the Moshi area.