tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35482557884016971112024-03-12T17:42:31.515-07:00Tanzania TimeOne’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things —Henry MillerUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-8429450268696233682012-05-24T16:00:00.001-07:002012-06-07T11:53:08.077-07:00So Long Tanzania <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">First, a HUGE thanks to everyone who read and commented on my blog this semester. (Special shout out to my Mom and Grandma Suzie, my two most dedicated readers, and Mama Sean and Mama Eliza who I was told have been keeping up) Without your positive feedback I would likely have renounced the effort long ago. Family and friends, thank you for ungrudgingly accepting this as my main form of communication for the last four months. I cannot wait to hear your voices and see your faces in person. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> My apologizes in advance for a long, picture-scanty last post. This final post is an opportunity to reflect, clear my mind, and collect my thoughts before getting caught up in summer. Though it is more for myself than anyone else, my hope is that each of you is able to find maybe one or two sentences or ideas that resonates inside you. Without further ado, here it goes...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Our first ‘assignment’ of the semester was to find a quiet place to sit in Nderokowoi Ranch and respond to the prompt “Why am I in Africa”. Although I had given my decision to study aboard extensive thought, my journal page was no more than a scatterbrained mess with no coherent answer. The conclusion I eventually came to was that I came to Africa out of instinct and only being here could tell me why I had come.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Four months later I am far from finished synthesizing my experience but I have made some progress. Coincidentally I believe the answer begins with this blog.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I chose <i>Tanzania Time</i> as a title haphazardly, for lack of a better alliteration, unaware of how relevant it would turn out to be. On our first safari back in February, I discovered that this is also the slogan for Kilimanjaro beer, one of the sought-after local beers. All over northern Tanzania the catchphrase can be found plastered on buildings, T-shirts, and vehicles. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Aside from an alcoholic tagline, my classmates and I quickly discovered that <i>Tanzania Time</i> is a <i>pace</i>. This pace is seen in the way a ten minute wait becomes an hour or two (or five or six), the leisurely speed that my translator and I strolled down the roads of Wasso as if we had no destination in mind, and the extended greetings that often last several minutes before a conversation has even begun. As the Tanzanian proverb goes, <i>Haraka haraka haina baraka, '</i>Hurry, hurry has no blessings.' (Upon entering a vehicle, this no longer applies)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> But one step further, <i>Tanzania Time</i> is a <i>mindset</i>. It is the attitude that there is always time in the day for guests and tea; the fact that when a Tanzanian is asked for directions he will personally escort you to your desired location no matter how far away it is. It’s exhibited by the willingness of taxi drivers to wait around several hours at no extra charge, the frequency with which the phrase “pole pole” (slowly, slowly) is recited, and the readiness of Tanzanians to talk morning, noon, and night, no matter the circumstance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Tanzanians have a way of making you feel that they have time for you— that there is nothing they would rather be doing at that very moment. They are extremely social, greeting everyone on the street and caring foremost about the people in their lives. They are proud of their collective way of living and rely on it in times of desperation.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> In the US, we often think of time as something to be <i>spent</i>, <i>wasted</i>, and <i>consumed</i>, but rarely is it thought of as something to <i>offer</i>. When I find myself running on high-speed too busy to stop to chat on campus, keep in contact with high school friends or help someone, I will find some <i>Tanzania Time. </i>Because I’ve realized sometimes time is the most precious gift you can give.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> When diving into an unfamiliar environment one must accept the inevitable vulnerability and dependency that come along with being a newbie. Throughout this semester, I often felt alone and lost due to my skin color, gender, and upbringing. Though our Swahili became somewhat conversational, we were constantly inhibited by the language barrier. For someone like me who thrives on independence, this helplessness was difficult to accept.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> In such situations, I came to realize that sometimes there is nothing you can do but <i>trust— </i>trust that the random guy showing us around town just wants to help out, trust that the taxi driver will not hit the oncoming traffic, and trust that the chickens in the house are harmless. If you want a good night’s sleep, you must have faith that the armed askari will take care of any lions that enter the campsite and if you would like to relieve your thirst, you must trust that Mama boiled the water.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> When things are going well this is not so hard to do, it is when things start to go astray that challenge arises. Even when you are sold bus tickets by a con man, mugged for the second time, sold a rip-off phone, misdiagnosed, misdirected, and screwed over repeatedly, you must learn to trust once more. For if you can’t you ought to stay in the hotel room because you won’t survive in Tanzania, or anywhere for that matter, on your own.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Throughout middle school and high school I dreaded going to French class, counting down the years until my requirements were fulfilled. Until recently, I viewed language as a static tool which enables people to express themselves but has little use beyond the practical. This semester, I gained a new appreciation for language as a reflection of a culture’s attitudes and values.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Although my Swahili vocabulary coming into the semester was limited to the phrases from the Lion King, it turns out <i>hakuna matata </i>(meaning ‘There are no worries’) and <i>rafiki</i> (meaning ‘friend’) weren’t bad words to know. Although the former is actually only used by businesspeople to attract the attention of Disney-loving tourists, the phrases <i>hamna shida, hakuna matatizo, </i>and<i> haina shinda</i> have the same meaning. Tanzanians have options when they want to express that there 'ain’t no worries,' which happens on an hourly basis.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> One night on our walk home from dinner, fed up with relentlessly being called <i>rafiki</i> by strangers, a friend of mine half-jokingly replied, <i>Mimi si rafiki yako </i>(meaning “I am not your friend”). The Tanzanian man calmly went on to explain, “In America, you have to know someone for years before you call them your friend. In Tanzania, everyone is your friend.” From then on it didn’t bother us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Similarly, people are referred to by their age group or position in the family. All women are addressed as <i>Mama</i>, men as <i>Baba</i>, young girls as <i>Dada</i>, boys as <i>Kaka, </i>elderly people as <i>Bibi </i>or <i>Babu. </i>Although these generic names seem unpersonalized and being called “Mama” or “Bibi” would likely insult many women in the US, the names take on an endearing quality. As you watch a woman get on a daladala and hand her baby to a stranger in the back seat to hold, the language is manifested. A Tanzanian woman is not just responsible for her children and her household, she’s everyones Mama.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> By the time I ventured to Wasso, I thought I had finally picked up on all the common greetings. I’d be getting along just fine until someone would throw in <i>Upo?</i> and I’d freeze with a look of confusion, mumbling my best guess at an appropriate response. After a few days of snickering as I floundered, my translator decided to tell me what it meant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Turns out <i>Upo? </i>means “Are you here?” to which one responds <i>Nipo</i>, “I am here.” Similarly, one may say <i>Tupo</i>, to which another person echos <i>Tupo</i>, “We are here.” These are frequently used in greetings as well as during pauses in dialogue. It is a way of acknowledging your full presence in a conversation... refreshing in this age of mobile distractions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> But perhaps the linguistic nuance I will miss the most is one four-letter word: <i>pole</i>. The word may be voiced when someone is harvesting crops, rolling a heavy wheelbarrow uphill, or suffering from an eye infection (see below). It is often uttered when one trips on a crack in the ground, is robbed, or for a plethora of other reasons. It is an expression of empathy for which English has no substitute. It is meant to be comforting, like a heartfelt ‘sorry’ but without the pity. It is a reminder that others have been in your situation before and it will soon pass.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Don’t get me wrong, Tanzania is no nirvana. In fact, it is a place with infinite problems; few people have electricity, possessions and opportunities are limited, men loiter around the streets jobless, the education system is a mess, women are second-class citizens, people die everyday from treatable diseases, clean water is harder to come by than Coke in many areas... the list goes on and on. I do not aim to paint a false, photoshopped portrait of the country.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> There are many things that I will not miss about life in Tanzania— sleeping inside a mosquito net, going to the bathroom without toilet paper, investing in bottled water, or hand-washing clothes. I will not miss reckless city driving accompanied by excessive honking, being seen as a bipedal bank, worrying about walking around town with my laptop, and eating only carbs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> On the other hand, the list of things I will miss about Tanzania is much longer. I will miss the wide array of fresh tropical fruit and the nightly street corn lathered in pilipili salt. I will miss the inadvertent conservation seen in the spectacular use of land, solar-powered phone charging stations, and reusable glass bottles. I will miss waking up looking forward to breakfast from the chapati mamas and sitting on the roof of Meru House Inn in the evenings watching the sunset with Mt. Meru over our shoulders. I will miss the bright colors and beautiful patterns of kangas hanging out to dry, perfectly contrasted by the green and brown villages. I will miss openly burping during meals, picking my nose in public without receiving looks of disgust, and using blunt language that does not offend (to get someone’s attention in Swahili you literally say <i>Wewe!</i>, “You!”).</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> At the same time there are those things that fall in an 'in between' category, that I was eager to escape yet imagine I will grow to miss overtime. These include ridiculously crowded daladala rides, the constant attention of being white, the title ‘Muzungu’ (or ‘Tanzania’ when wearing a soccer jersey), and being run over by street peddlers. I have already found myself nostalgic of bargaining and long greetings, two things I once swore I would never miss. Funny how that is.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Although Baba Jack would argue SIT’s ‘experiential learning’ claim is simply an advertising ploy, it is hard for me to believe that there is no difference between classroom learning and immersing oneself in a foreign country for four months. I think it comes down to the senses.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> One can study the politics, culture, and biology of an area from a textbook, yet you cannot fully understand the Maasai without knowing the milky smell of their bomas, the sound of dancing and chanting at Esoto, or the sweat brought on by the blazing afternoon heat. You cannot comprehend the need for a tarmac road in Wasso without experiencing the long bumpy trek yourself, crossing a waste-high river by foot, or talking to villagers with malaria who walked for hours to get to the hospital. You cannot study giraffe behaviors without also spotting the male impala unfailingly nearby or feeling the sting of the Acacia thorns they feed on. Only by dealing with street salesmen, responding to requests for money, pens and marriage, or having your Muzungu hair admired by a young girl, can one understand the true meaning of ‘whiteness’.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I know that I have been absorbed in this new culture because I have forgotten American manners— waiting to eat until everyone is served, politely refusing food (this is considered rude in Tanzania), saying “bless you” after someone sneezes. I have lost the natural tendency to put on a seatbelt and my perceptions of appropriate eye-contact and personal space are skewed. I sat next to a Tanzanian man on my return flight to Amsterdam who was going Sweden to work for a month. It was his first time going to a Western country and I noticed him observing my behaviors, taking note of any nuances he should adopt to fit in. The strange part was, I found myself looking to others, having forgotten my own cultural norms. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Tanzania is a poor country but a proud country. Tanzanians are proud of their country’s peaceful history, language, and friendliness. Material possessions are few but friends are plentiful. You can decide which is more important.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I will end this blog with a quote I came across months ago by the Italian poet Cesare Pavese. Although I can’t remember where I found it, I wrote it down in the back of my journal before leaving the US and my eyes skimmed across it several times throughout the semester.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“If you wish to travel far and fast, travel light. Take off all your envies, jealousies, unforgiveness, selfishness and fears.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> No one embodies this quote more than Tanzanians— the most nonjudgemental, forgiving, selfless group of people I have ever met. As I begin this next stage of my life, it will be with a cup of tea in hand and a full pot warm on the stove for anyone who wishes to sit down and chat.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thank you for welcoming us with open arms to your beautiful country, Tanzania. Your impression will forever be a part of me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Lastly, to those who shared the challenges, frustrations, and joys of this semester, you guys are the best. What a ride it has been!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-44556142102606394112012-05-20T05:27:00.000-07:002012-05-21T00:21:29.777-07:00Flavors of Zanzibar<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Upon conclusion of an academic semester spent scoffing at tourists, trying to distinguish ourselves from <i>them</i>, we decided to do the most touristy thing of all: head to Zanzibar for the week.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Following a teary-eyed goodbye with many of our classmates, seven friends and I woke before sunrise on the 10th for a ten-hour bus ride to Dar es Saalam, the biggest city in Tanzania. We spent the night at the Salvation Army Hostel where we were joined by our new travel companions, itchy bed bugs, just in time for the ferry across the Indian Ocean early the next morning. The boat ride turned into an exciting rescue mission as we picked up a fisherman who’s boat had sunk.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dar es Saalam, the biggest city in Tanzania</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe hiding from the insects in the room at the Salvation Army Hostel</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> With street lights, guaranteed electricity and air conditioning, it is hard to believe Zanzaibar and mainland Tanzania are two parts of the same country. The narrow, windy roads give the island a European feel rather than an African one. Though Serengeti safaris attract copious visitors every year, the tourism industry of mainland Tanzania is dwarfed by that of Zanzibar. Tourists in summer clothing and skimpy bikinis stand out like sore thumbs among the local women, the large majority of whom are Muslim.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Since our time in Zanzibar was limited, our days were jam-packed with activities, hitting all the main tourist attractions: a spice tour, snorkeling on Prison Island, hanging out with Red Colobus Monkeys in the forest (which are endemic to Zanzibar), petting sea turtles. We laid on a beautiful, white-sand beach with pina coladas in hand and spoiled ourselves with nightly happy hour cocktails. We walked into a cave where slaves were hidden after the abolition of the East African slave trade, visited a community butterfly project, and watched tortoises mate (quite the spectacle!).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Zanzibar is a beautiful place, perhaps one of the most beautiful I have ever been, and it would be hard for anyone to argue differently.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I could easily spend weeks just walking around the shops where craftsmen carve wooden chests and remarkable, intricate doors seen throughout Stone Town, artists paint inside their shops, and the clothing and fabric selection is endless and reasonably priced if you know how to bargain. The streets smell of fresh cardamom, nutmeg, vanilla, lemon grass, saffron, cumin, and cinnamon, sold at prices that would make any serious cook high off excitement. Every evening from 6 PM until midnight there is a seafood market at a park nearby the port where local fish, shark, and shellfish are cooked in front of you. The people of Zanzibar are incredibly friendly and the salespeople not overly-pushy. I left Zanzibar thrilled that I decided to extend my stay in Tanzania, invigorated after an exhausting last week of presentations and goodbyes, and smelling much better than I had when I arrived thanks to warm showers and the spices I acquired.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vanilla bean!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cinnamon sticks are made from pieces of bark<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> After spending four months in a only a small portion of northern Tanzania, I realize that it is impossible to truly understand a place, especially an environment so rich in history and culture, in just one week. Simply put, Zanzibar was a vacation— a great one at that! I could not have asked for a more exhilarating destination or better company. At the same time, it was a preview of the culture shock that I anticipate will soon come.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe, Kate and I. The cleanest we've looked since January</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> As we cringed at shops with set prices and the inflated costs of food and taxi rides, Addie’s dad, who joined us from the US for the week, could not believe the bargain. When prices were given in American dollars, we found ourselves converting the amounts into Tanzanian shillings in order to determine the <i>real cost. </i>The hotels, restaurants, and shops lining the streets all seemed luxurious. For the first time in months, we saw people sporting designer clothing, were expected to tip, and were able to count on the lights in our hotel room turning on. None of these things were necessarily <i>good</i> or <i>bad</i>, just different.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> The last of my classmates to present his Independent Study Project, did his study on the power dynamic of studying abroad, using our program as a case example. At the end of his presentation, he concluded that each of us must make the <i>choice</i> of what to do with this semester-long experience— how we want to incorporate it into our lives and allow it to affect our futures.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> In Zanzibar, we were confronted with the choice to use our spotty Swahili or resort back to English. We had the choice to splurge on fancy American foods or continue eating local dishes. We had the choice to pay $200 per night for a four star hotel or $10 per night for a local one. Although these decisions seem trivial and one, two, or even 100 of them will have no significant affect on our lives (aside from our wallets), this semester has made me well-aware of the nuanced undertones of such choices.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">While there is no </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>right </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">or </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>wrong </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">answers per se, as my classmate eloquently put it, how we allow awarenesses to affect our lives is up to each and every individual. Zanzibar was one glimpse of this challenge.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-36666003692150167542012-05-18T14:13:00.001-07:002012-06-04T21:32:55.297-07:00Not So Alone in the Bush<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> In late March, our group of 28 stopped in a small village called Wasso for the night to give the camp crew a break. Antsy after hours in a car, looking to satisfy our guilty chocolate pleasures after two weeks void of civilization, and with a free afternoon on our hands, a friend and I ventured about the village.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> As we walked around we encountered a small room crowded with men vehemently watching a soccer game (the week’s schedule posted on the door), a church group singing and dancing with rolling hills in the backdrop, and a small fruit and grain market. We followed dirt paths to beautiful fields of maize, beans, and sunflowers, filled with villagers eager to talk. I immediately knew that I wanted to return to this place.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So on a whim, I decided to change my Independent Study Project location from Bangata— only an hour’s walk from Arusha, where there are lots of familiar faces— to Wasso— where I knew not a single person by name and no SIT student had ever done their project before. Instead of studying ‘perceptions of community’ as I had planned during ISP preparation week and written my proposal on, I changed my study to look at the controversial Serengeti Road which if passed would cross directly through Wasso. To my parents dismay, I decided to go alone.</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Although my rash decision-making sounds somewhat crazy in retrospect, it made sense at the time. I was semi-dreading returning to Bangata for three more weeks while my peers set out across northern Tanzania and</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I craved the adventure of exploring new grounds. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">With only a month left of the program, it seemed there was so much left of northern Tanzania to see and by staying in Bangata I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">felt I would be taking the easy way out.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was uncertain with my original study topic and beginning to doubt working with secondary school students who are infamous for giving white people trouble. I had never travelled alone and my body and mind were hungry for the challenge. Turns out, it was perhaps the best decision I’ve ever made.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Baba Jack gave me the heads up that Wasso is difficult to get to but I did not fully appreciate his precautionary warning until experiencing the journey myself. After 12 hours on a crowded bus (with a cat in a bag under my feet) that nearly flipped multiple times and eventually got stuck due to rocky road conditions, and an additional three hours hanging on the top of a Land Rover in the dark and rain, I arrived in Wasso cold, wet, and more excited than ever to climb into bed.</span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> The following day was spent arranging food and accommodations for the next two weeks at the Peace and Love Guesthouse, getting permission for my study from the village chairman, and finding Seuri (pronounced SAY-uri), my translator, who I had met atop the Land Rover the night before.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-imBeFZm2MUs/T7a0dpC5XRI/AAAAAAAAAXc/talkW222YB0/s1600/02-seuri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-imBeFZm2MUs/T7a0dpC5XRI/AAAAAAAAAXc/talkW222YB0/s400/02-seuri.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seuri and I<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The back of the guesthouse. The hot hangout spot of the village. Music playing 24/7.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> Although the daylong trek made the village seem a world away from Arusha, I later found out that it is only 400 km or a 45 minute helicopter flight— the current road is just </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>that bad</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">. If this didn’t justify my study and the need for a tarmac road, my next two weeks of interviews certainly did. As I spoke with businesspeople, teachers, healthcare professionals, government workers, reverends, and villagers about a new road as an ‘agent of development,’ it became obvious that that two were synonymous and mutually dependent in my study site— you cannot have ‘development’ in Wasso without a paved road, and a road will not come without ‘development’. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dirt path to the secondary school after a big rain.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Currently, the village of approximately 1,500 to 2,000 people is considered ‘in the bush.’ Although it is home to a secondary school and district hospital, teachers and doctors who are assigned to work in Wasso run away, literally. During the rainy season, the dirt road is often not traversable and I was told many horror stories of buses getting stuck for days in the Serengeti. Poor transport infrastructure has resulted in scare and overpriced goods, sparse access to electricity and water, insufficient social services, and limited competition. The direction of my study shifted to look less at the specifics of the Serengeti Road and more at an ‘underdeveloped’ populations’ views on ‘development’, </span></span><span style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Times New Roman'; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">turning vague language into concrete manifestations brought about by a road.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Over the two week period, I conducted 38 interviews with the help of Seuri, each about 40 minutes to an hour long, which provoked many great discussions and really interesting results (in my opinion at least). After another full week typing up a 30-page report and preparing a presentation to share with my classmates, I am exhausted by the subject matter so I will not bore you with the details of my study. That said, I am more than happy to discuss my methods or findings at a later date or lend the printed copy to all who are interested in reading!</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> While a good slice of my time in Wasso was spent conducting interviews and organizing responses in my notebook, in truth, the study was more of a subsidiary to my experience. What made my time in Wasso truly memorable was the people that I met along the way.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> On day one, I realized that paying for meals in advance was a mistake. Since I had come without a passport, I needed to go to the neighboring village of Loliondo (10 km away) to get a stamp of approval from the police chief before beginning my study. When Seuri and I got out of the car in Loliondo, we were greeted by Reverend Isaya, who spent the next two hours walking around town with us trying to get my situation settled. Afterwards, he invited us back to his home for lunch and demanded that I return again for dinner... and the next day to learn to cook <i>ugali</i> from his wife... and insisted that I stay at his home for free for the next two weeks. Although I turned down his gracious offer, he allowed Seuri to stay at his home while working with me, saving him the daily travel time and cost to go from Wasso to Loliondo where his family lives.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> As I sat around that first night with Seuri, the reverend, and his beautiful family, eating corncobs and discussing education, safety, Obama (whom his youngest son ‘Barak’ was named after), poverty, and Martin Luther King Jr. in <i>Swa-English</i>, I could not have felt more welcome. The reverend and his wife refused to call me ‘Abby’, nicknaming me the Maasai word for 'Always happy' — apparently I could not stop smiling.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Around 10 PM, the entire family walked me back to the guesthouse by flashlight to ensure I arrived safely. Although Reverend Isaya left to walk to Kenya for a conference the next morning and was yet to return when I left Wasso, I believe that if there are angels on Earth, he is one.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Although I went to Wasso by my lonesome, I quickly discovered that I was far from alone. If I sat on the stoop of the guesthouse, people young and old immediately came to chat (or ask my hand in marriage). When I sat down to eat a meal someone would undoubtedly pull up a chair usually offering to buy me a drink. When I got an eye infection, everybody we encountered expressed their empathy. Although I only asked Seuri to work a few hours each day, he voluntarily kept me company all afternoon, happily introducing me to his friends and family. The number of people on the street who stopped to talk and welcome me to Tanzania and their homes was truly remarkable. Everyone was eager to lend a hand and a warm cup of tea. The villagers had a way of making me feel welcome and wanted. I went to bed every night overwhelmed with kindness.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> Towards the end of my stay I was introduced to Reverend Yonah, who invited Seuri and I over for dinner every night thereafter. Each evening we sat around a wooden table in his cozy, one-room home illuminated by a hanging flashlight, as his “beloved wife” cooked dinner on a small stove in the corner. The house was neatly organized with belongings and decorations— enough to live comfortably but not excessive. As the reverend swung his adorable 3-year-old daughter ‘B’ up and down, he would say, “This is Tanzanian Life”, followed by a chuckle.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> It was moments like this that I will never forget; that made me want to rip down the the wall-painting outside of the tailor’s shop that read, “It’s big fun to be rich,” next to a boy in a USA flag t-shirt; that made my blood rage through my veins when villagers discussed how poor they are and how badly they want to be like Americans. There is so much more to life than monetary wealth.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> The villagers of Wasso were more than willing to talk and take time out of their day to help a stranger. The sheer joy on the street is unlike anything I have experienced in the US. It is no wonder that of the 38 people I interviewed, every single one said they want to live in Wasso <i>kabisa </i>(forever). I do not blame them.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Although compiling and analyzing the data from my interviews was no easy feat and meeting my page requirement was a bit of a struggle, my acknowledgements section could have gone on for pages. To quote my final project, because I believe these people deserve another shout out...</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">To everyone that graciously welcomed me to their homes– thank you for the tea, soda, beer, and nyama choma, for the exchange of ideas, and for speaking slowly so that I might understand. Thank you for sharing yourselves and your beautiful village with the lone Muzungu girl from America. Your unparalleled hospitality will never be forgotten.”</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0px;"> In the days leading up to my ISP I was jumped in Arusha, my purse and phone stolen and shirt sleeve ripped. Although I was physically unharmed, I was shaken and anxious to travel alone. After my stay in Wa</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">sso, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">my faith in fellow human beings had never been so strong.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-35716983651801669872012-05-01T03:40:00.000-07:002012-05-18T20:19:14.757-07:00Karibu Mt. Meru!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Upon reuniting with the other students, some friends and I took a short break from laboring (okay, hardly) over our Independent Study Projects to climb Mt. Meru. After three days of much-needed exercise, whimsical delusion from the high altitude, majestic views and too much Advil for anyone's good, we are now paying the price, grinding out our papers and presentations. Therefore, an update from two weeks as a lone traveler to Wasso COMING SOON.</div>
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In the meantime, as I was catching up on friends' adventures across the world (admittedly via Facebook and Tumblr) I came across this Kurt Vonnegut quote—shout out to Emily Miles!</div>
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"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.' "</div>
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Mt. Meru was our first glimpse of Tanzania, as we eagerly crawled out of our tents at Ndarakwai Ranch back in January. At the time, the rocky mountain was a big, stunning stranger. </div>
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After three months admiring its striking allure each time we return to Arusha from safari, drinking its snowmelt, and sharing a home, its presence and significance are visceral. As the semester winds to an end, the climb seemed to be the perfect farewell. </div>
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Standing on the summit with some of the coolest, most-selfless people I know, overlooking this vast, beautiful country, I could not have been more genuinely happy. </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-74300008820992806162012-04-03T06:36:00.002-07:002012-04-04T04:38:06.923-07:00Serengeti Skies, Sweat, and Slaughtering<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> When we left Arusha two weeks ago, I knew we would soon be seeing Serengeti National Park, one of Africa's most renowned landmarks. Yet I was unaware of the subsequent, life-changing adventures that Maasailand had in store. I am once again at a loss of words for the people, places, and ideas that made the last two weeks extraordinarily rewarding and challenging— unlike anything I have experienced before. I hesitantly leave it to a select few of my hundreds of photos to paint a picture of our two-week journey across Northern Tanzania.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tara, Addie, and I above Ngorongoro Crater, the 'eighth wonder of the world'.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise at our campsite overlooking the Crater. The only time when it was chilly enough for me to suffer the consequences of forgetting my sleeping bag in Arusha.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading into the crater for the day. (I can't say I remember the sky being that color but the picture was not edited...)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--HHsp2kWIPE/T3rODsTHPBI/AAAAAAAAAMk/oEBCvrJAVvY/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--HHsp2kWIPE/T3rODsTHPBI/AAAAAAAAAMk/oEBCvrJAVvY/s320/04.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zebras hanging out on the crater floor.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vaJIlldaGWA/T3rOKg9Y4JI/AAAAAAAAAMs/tCGULg9b9Zc/s1600/05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vaJIlldaGWA/T3rOKg9Y4JI/AAAAAAAAAMs/tCGULg9b9Zc/s320/05.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wildebeest.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UK9usBBTb_Q/T3rOOqRnjjI/AAAAAAAAAM0/vqB8XqM6C3A/s1600/06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UK9usBBTb_Q/T3rOOqRnjjI/AAAAAAAAAM0/vqB8XqM6C3A/s320/06.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesse and I at the entrance to Serengeti National Park. As you can see, the savannah behind us is endless.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mxLHLflDKDo/T3rOTu4mpoI/AAAAAAAAAM8/GG7d_0yFego/s1600/07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mxLHLflDKDo/T3rOTu4mpoI/AAAAAAAAAM8/GG7d_0yFego/s320/07.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the lizards that joined our picnic lunch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>During our four days in the Serengeti, we woke before sunrise to collect data from 6:30 until 10AM. Our ruminants study group chose to observe variations in behaviors between male, female, and sub-adult giraffes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9yxiUlkQ5mg/T3rOWnbqk-I/AAAAAAAAANE/tSYkn3VOmkY/s1600/08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9yxiUlkQ5mg/T3rOWnbqk-I/AAAAAAAAANE/tSYkn3VOmkY/s320/08.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zoe with our driver, Olias, who deserves a medal for putting up with four, crazy girls.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HqWxQFW226M/T3rOaaqbahI/AAAAAAAAANM/qrkIJnIZp7M/s1600/09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HqWxQFW226M/T3rOaaqbahI/AAAAAAAAANM/qrkIJnIZp7M/s320/09.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dead hippo at sunrise... sorry to put it bluntly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bC6RPiRz0uI/T3rObt8KBWI/AAAAAAAAANU/sYmSXH8aP9k/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bC6RPiRz0uI/T3rObt8KBWI/AAAAAAAAANU/sYmSXH8aP9k/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twiga (Kiswahili for 'giraffes') browsing during an afternoon game drive.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTMWJ9xhSEU/T3rTijqUoVI/AAAAAAAAANk/gs9rYCK2x-Q/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTMWJ9xhSEU/T3rTijqUoVI/AAAAAAAAANk/gs9rYCK2x-Q/s320/11.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Giraffe lovin'. Photo dedicated to Afred, my 4-foot stuffed giraffe stuck in storage for the semester :/</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R0uqBJViPnk/T3rTpvzyYiI/AAAAAAAAANs/TsWWE0fc18c/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R0uqBJViPnk/T3rTpvzyYiI/AAAAAAAAANs/TsWWE0fc18c/s320/12.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">An adult male eating an Acacia tree, huge thorns and all. Giraffes have horny papille on their lips and tongue that allow them to do so.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ThuEHL0ioo/T3rTtDnrI3I/AAAAAAAAAN0/GpLCAlUtWGk/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--ThuEHL0ioo/T3rTtDnrI3I/AAAAAAAAAN0/GpLCAlUtWGk/s320/13.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Giraffe crossing.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QIgiQX1_inc/T3rT6f1pWGI/AAAAAAAAAOM/9lsJjcVCs2c/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QIgiQX1_inc/T3rT6f1pWGI/AAAAAAAAAOM/9lsJjcVCs2c/s320/16.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Distracted by lions.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2u-egty5QQk/T3rTxN5CvUI/AAAAAAAAAN8/IHCKbs-VAwo/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2u-egty5QQk/T3rTxN5CvUI/AAAAAAAAAN8/IHCKbs-VAwo/s320/14.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Simba (Kiswahili for 'lion'. Makes sense right?) and cubs everywhere!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uhariuIJ5iE/T3rT17mjEII/AAAAAAAAAOE/M-gnK_phT4I/s1600/15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uhariuIJ5iE/T3rT17mjEII/AAAAAAAAAOE/M-gnK_phT4I/s320/15.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Apparently humans aren't the only ones that feel bloated after big meals.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rTge5XF-ESY/T3rT8kBd7WI/AAAAAAAAAOU/Uut_8WhrIz0/s1600/17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rTge5XF-ESY/T3rT8kBd7WI/AAAAAAAAAOU/Uut_8WhrIz0/s320/17.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Sweet Serengeti sky.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mQ-9Hlgjn18/T3rUCWgRVKI/AAAAAAAAAOc/y87jrmvo0F8/s1600/18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mQ-9Hlgjn18/T3rUCWgRVKI/AAAAAAAAAOc/y87jrmvo0F8/s320/18.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Hippo pool. Fun fact: Hippos sleep underwater and come up for air without waking up.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uj_yXrU555g/T3rUGf7D65I/AAAAAAAAAOk/VKbQfLF8zO8/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uj_yXrU555g/T3rUGf7D65I/AAAAAAAAAOk/VKbQfLF8zO8/s320/19.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><h4><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: 0px;">Sparkling clean after a week on the road. This picture was taken at the Peace and Love Guest House in a small village called Wasso in the center of Massailand. Although we were only there for a night, I've decided to return there to do my 3-week Independent Study Project that begins this Friday.</span></h4><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dt3kp0WrZ30/T3rUJ_vD8KI/AAAAAAAAAOs/rYFycQrUjEQ/s1600/20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dt3kp0WrZ30/T3rUJ_vD8KI/AAAAAAAAAOs/rYFycQrUjEQ/s320/20.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Baba Jack at last!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cPdhZmLHHcU/T3rUMGexUbI/AAAAAAAAAO0/W9FmhWhKQho/s1600/21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cPdhZmLHHcU/T3rUMGexUbI/AAAAAAAAAO0/W9FmhWhKQho/s320/21.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Our crazy, cool program director.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_DPPgokarH4/T3rUQlE5RiI/AAAAAAAAAO8/8WdOlv_RVdg/s1600/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_DPPgokarH4/T3rUQlE5RiI/AAAAAAAAAO8/8WdOlv_RVdg/s320/22.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Pit stop on the way to our Maasai homestay in the Lake Natron region.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvN7pgGVQ8o/T3rUSe3YdmI/AAAAAAAAAPE/FqDRDXg3lhE/s1600/23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yvN7pgGVQ8o/T3rUSe3YdmI/AAAAAAAAAPE/FqDRDXg3lhE/s320/23.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">View from our campsite in Engare Sero village. Without a doubt one of, if not THE, most breathtaking place I have ever been. Unfortunately, my blog does not like the panoramic version at the moment.</span></td></tr>
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</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Before I proceed to talk about our 3-day Maasai homestay in Engare Sero village, I must set the scene... </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> Imagine yourself doing Bikram yoga— the kind of yoga that takes place in a boiling room to make you sweat out all the toxins in your body— for three days straight. Now replace the steaming room with an equally hot Maasai boma (home) and instead of doing Downward Dog, just drink warm tea.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b2ANz_PQBLQ/T3rUeo1bXyI/AAAAAAAAAPk/mB46LwvbjSk/s1600/29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b2ANz_PQBLQ/T3rUeo1bXyI/AAAAAAAAAPk/mB46LwvbjSk/s320/29.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">This is our homestay Mama outside of our boma. The Maasai are polygamists. although my Mama was my Baba's only wife. Each wife builds their own home out of cow poop and sticks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rUBO40_g3aE/T3rUjb0__iI/AAAAAAAAAPs/VGAvDd7yw7w/s1600/30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rUBO40_g3aE/T3rUjb0__iI/AAAAAAAAAPs/VGAvDd7yw7w/s320/30.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Nalepo, my homestay Mama. Although Kiswahili is both of our second languages, I could tell she has quite the sense of humor. She could not have been more accommodating.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L1iVz7w6LGA/T3rqeq98b3I/AAAAAAAAAP0/hQFI8Fx7Ybw/s1600/31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L1iVz7w6LGA/T3rqeq98b3I/AAAAAAAAAP0/hQFI8Fx7Ybw/s320/31.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Mama and dada (sister) Mery. Mery is 14 years old and was my escort and best friend for three days. She graduated from primary school earlier this year and we were able to communicate in Kiswahili.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t3rJyIal30A/T3rqn1u8sOI/AAAAAAAAAP8/HYoX0obk1lM/s1600/32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t3rJyIal30A/T3rqn1u8sOI/AAAAAAAAAP8/HYoX0obk1lM/s320/32.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">From left to right: Random kid that came over for the photo, my brother Moshi (10), Mama, me, and my older sister Nadupoi (15). They insisted that I hold the kid's radio.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hbn1PFpMir4/T3rqt7hwN1I/AAAAAAAAAQE/O5r0n0an4cY/s1600/33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hbn1PFpMir4/T3rqt7hwN1I/AAAAAAAAAQE/O5r0n0an4cY/s320/33.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Daily face washing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W9FUtvNWYc4/T3rqxs8OpgI/AAAAAAAAAQM/jkMbXMmpDe8/s1600/34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W9FUtvNWYc4/T3rqxs8OpgI/AAAAAAAAAQM/jkMbXMmpDe8/s320/34.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Mery cutting firewood. Notice the cows in the background. Maasai are pastoralists that rely on cows for food, milk, mattresses, and clothing. The more cows a man has, the richer he is. A cow is worth 8 goats or 600,000 Tanzanian shillings. When asking a father for his daughter's hand in marriage, I man must give the women's family at least four cows, typically seven or eight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1kseYSH_zbg/T3rq2SzJlmI/AAAAAAAAAQU/Hor_y5t94Rw/s1600/35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1kseYSH_zbg/T3rq2SzJlmI/AAAAAAAAAQU/Hor_y5t94Rw/s320/35.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">My turn.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KyJopIwcgUA/T3rrAc-hhrI/AAAAAAAAAQk/j0aOsNB8ll8/s1600/37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KyJopIwcgUA/T3rrAc-hhrI/AAAAAAAAAQk/j0aOsNB8ll8/s320/37.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Headed back to the boma.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H0gPjKcXno4/T3rrEcRYwYI/AAAAAAAAAQs/ak__GnqROSY/s1600/38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H0gPjKcXno4/T3rrEcRYwYI/AAAAAAAAAQs/ak__GnqROSY/s320/38.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Aside from cows, goats are very valuable in Maasai society for their milk and meat. Around ages 10 to 15, Maasai boys are circumcised and trained to be "Warriors" whos role is to protect the community. This is me with a Maasai warrior and his goats.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tVoO7Ddn58Q/T3rrH62i0AI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/Elkp-vdUaBk/s1600/39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tVoO7Ddn58Q/T3rrH62i0AI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/Elkp-vdUaBk/s320/39.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Milking the goat.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xfsye51_jBI/T3ruN_BVD0I/AAAAAAAAAUk/qHNeKAltS_8/s1600/69.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xfsye51_jBI/T3ruN_BVD0I/AAAAAAAAAUk/qHNeKAltS_8/s320/69.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Madeline and our siblings.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X3akl3leHAo/T3rrK-3SGII/AAAAAAAAAQ8/rQbd5kH5euc/s1600/40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X3akl3leHAo/T3rrK-3SGII/AAAAAAAAAQ8/rQbd5kH5euc/s320/40.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Oldonyo Lengai, the "Mountain of God". A volcano which several of my classmates climbed the day after homstay. The rest of us hiked to the source of the Engare River, the lifeline of Engare Sero village. The river winds around steep cliffs lined with waterfalls and palm trees. At the source, water appears to magically pour out of a huge rock wall (the Rift Valley Wall). Unfortunately, my camera was dead.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AqM7Wdgbfqk/T3rrQJYBZ3I/AAAAAAAAARE/IcLqEYcZ4sE/s1600/41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AqM7Wdgbfqk/T3rrQJYBZ3I/AAAAAAAAARE/IcLqEYcZ4sE/s320/41.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">There is no limit to what Tanzanians can balance on their heads.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B4gWhF0Ce00/T3rrfbqzjtI/AAAAAAAAARM/oAoznm8cf38/s1600/42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B4gWhF0Ce00/T3rrfbqzjtI/AAAAAAAAARM/oAoznm8cf38/s320/42.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Baboons in the river where we went to bathe. There's no shame in Engare Sero.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xmrz9qoTff4/T3rrkyaVa0I/AAAAAAAAARU/psnd81OdJM4/s1600/43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xmrz9qoTff4/T3rrkyaVa0I/AAAAAAAAARU/psnd81OdJM4/s320/43.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Hiking to Lake Natron.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0wrwH30eK2U/T3rrmVSljRI/AAAAAAAAARc/yek3EiZwThk/s1600/44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0wrwH30eK2U/T3rrmVSljRI/AAAAAAAAARc/yek3EiZwThk/s320/44.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Eliza's homestay Mama. Strikingly beautiful.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cDqRWHbiY9E/T3rro5WcIDI/AAAAAAAAARk/t3bzRhi5r_I/s1600/45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cDqRWHbiY9E/T3rro5WcIDI/AAAAAAAAARk/t3bzRhi5r_I/s320/45.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Tess in the flood plains.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-szQbhkulRCo/T3rrwL-pVoI/AAAAAAAAAR0/H3HQFmZv-nM/s1600/47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-szQbhkulRCo/T3rrwL-pVoI/AAAAAAAAAR0/H3HQFmZv-nM/s320/47.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Me in my Maasai wardrobe.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rVzHw3Rqh-A/T3rrtcp3vpI/AAAAAAAAARs/_V0UNXDzi2I/s1600/46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rVzHw3Rqh-A/T3rrtcp3vpI/AAAAAAAAARs/_V0UNXDzi2I/s320/46.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Kasey's homestay brother teaching us to use a bow and arrow.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6I8_eOtl6WE/T3rr0OaWCGI/AAAAAAAAAR8/3xc9Wl8c86Q/s1600/48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6I8_eOtl6WE/T3rr0OaWCGI/AAAAAAAAAR8/3xc9Wl8c86Q/s320/48.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Lake Natron, the only remaining breeding ground for flamingos.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z1OGoopQN6g/T3rr2nZmCbI/AAAAAAAAASE/-ory-qNBUto/s1600/49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z1OGoopQN6g/T3rr2nZmCbI/AAAAAAAAASE/-ory-qNBUto/s320/49.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UzweSgKOWs8/T3rsCZG6RDI/AAAAAAAAASc/ZaILeVYi-so/s1600/52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UzweSgKOWs8/T3rsCZG6RDI/AAAAAAAAASc/ZaILeVYi-so/s320/52.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Zoe at Lake Natron.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gU95Dm82qY8/T3rsHl8I0wI/AAAAAAAAASk/xzqGcQCF0Go/s1600/53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gU95Dm82qY8/T3rsHl8I0wI/AAAAAAAAASk/xzqGcQCF0Go/s320/53.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Mery and I. I will never forget her laugh and kindness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7AWSc8PWxe4/T3rsNM70G7I/AAAAAAAAASs/IAWPHZVB558/s1600/54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7AWSc8PWxe4/T3rsNM70G7I/AAAAAAAAASs/IAWPHZVB558/s320/54.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Madeline.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OfHdeU2ck4M/T3rsWdrQhHI/AAAAAAAAAS0/ZnkpuiOUOpc/s1600/55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OfHdeU2ck4M/T3rsWdrQhHI/AAAAAAAAAS0/ZnkpuiOUOpc/s320/55.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Kacey and her Mama on the scorching hot walk home. Notice that the ground is covered in salt.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9jw9WvVVG_o/T3rs4bVJBnI/AAAAAAAAATE/QWT9DpX6t50/s1600/57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9jw9WvVVG_o/T3rs4bVJBnI/AAAAAAAAATE/QWT9DpX6t50/s320/57.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">'Making' ugali for lunch, although besides for a few seconds of stirring (just enough to take the picture), I can't say I really contributed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2HrCphRC_U/T3rs_H3BtFI/AAAAAAAAATM/Cw46MfS7BAA/s1600/58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2HrCphRC_U/T3rs_H3BtFI/AAAAAAAAATM/Cw46MfS7BAA/s320/58.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Before a boy is circumcised there is a big party at his house. People from across the village come to sing, dance, and eat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Drew joining in with the warriors like a champ.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">During the heat of the day most women sit under trees and bead jewelry to wear and sell. Beautiful to wear but not fun to sleep in!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YGElFnEG2p8/T3rt5ne9LfI/AAAAAAAAAT8/MQ43gHesSS8/s1600/64.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YGElFnEG2p8/T3rt5ne9LfI/AAAAAAAAAT8/MQ43gHesSS8/s320/64.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Every evening Maasai warriors gather from 7 until 10:30 PM to dance and show off their jumping abilities to young girls.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_FamvnoCj4E/T3rt9sVGAeI/AAAAAAAAAUE/h9svGev4X7o/s1600/65.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_FamvnoCj4E/T3rt9sVGAeI/AAAAAAAAAUE/h9svGev4X7o/s320/65.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Baba, Mama, and I.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PRL7Wans5aQ/T3ruDWxB5wI/AAAAAAAAAUM/WfV_gugQfhk/s1600/66.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PRL7Wans5aQ/T3ruDWxB5wI/AAAAAAAAAUM/WfV_gugQfhk/s320/66.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">My Maasai family and I.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Family photo outside the boma.<br />
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</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-46902899419698884962012-03-10T22:55:00.061-08:002012-03-11T00:49:09.169-08:00Tanzanian Homestay 101After our three-week homestay in Bangata, I have compiled a list of 26 interesting, random, half-serious and likely useless observations, facts, and tidbits of advice. Perhaps they will come in handy in your future endeavors.<br />
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</div><div>1. Doors and alarm clocks are overrated. Sheets of fabric and chickens do just fine.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ATW-SjsD-JQ/T1xLfAF7bCI/AAAAAAAAAGk/cNmrMhNlBuw/s1600/23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ATW-SjsD-JQ/T1xLfAF7bCI/AAAAAAAAAGk/cNmrMhNlBuw/s320/23.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>2. Beware of potholes when playing soccer. Stuff shoes in the biggest one.</div><div>3. Family structure can be extremely confusing. The children running around the house, fetching water, and eating dinner with you, may or may not be your siblings.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8fUTDKhU2e4/T1xLuvkCFfI/AAAAAAAAAGs/hi1IQGHQHbg/s1600/17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8fUTDKhU2e4/T1xLuvkCFfI/AAAAAAAAAGs/hi1IQGHQHbg/s320/17.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>4. Cooking chapati is an art. It's probably better not to get in Mama's way.</div><div>5. It's hard to beat waking up to a warm bucket-shower. Just be careful, the water may still be boiling.</div><div><div>6. Avoid offending people. It's very hard to apologize in a new language.</div></div><div>7. Walking is not an option when going down hills after a big rain. You will either run or slide.</div><div>8. Music must be listened to loud enough so that conversations are not possible. The day has not yet begun until the nyumba (house) is bumping with Gospel music.</div><div>9. On a similar note, gospel music videos are ridiculously catchy. For all you TV-R Parkies— Despite what we are told in class, there is (at least) one entire country that loves iMovie transitions. The more frequent and corny the better. </div><div>10. Freshly milked cow milk in my cup of tea is not my cup of tea.</div><div>11. Two men holding hands is commonplace in Tanzanian. Homosexuality, however, is illegal. </div><div>12. To make an an object a toy just put it on a stick. This includes but is certainly not limited to leaves, water bottles, Blue Band butter lids, etc.</div><div>13. Transcans are non-existent. Got wrappers? Boxes? Paper? Just throw it out the window into the yard.</div><div>14. There are 30 different types of bananas and they are extremely versatile. They can/will be eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as main courses, desserts, or with tea. Bananas as we know them (called 'ndizi sukari') are miniature and ridiculously delicious. Also, banana tree is a main staple in cows diets.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4-Dy1S4SBaM/T1xK4W2PkCI/AAAAAAAAAGU/_Gj67-GZJoY/s1600/07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4-Dy1S4SBaM/T1xK4W2PkCI/AAAAAAAAAGU/_Gj67-GZJoY/s320/07.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AW_gQeYvsWY/T1xK80t6bkI/AAAAAAAAAGc/RsdDNvA7Hsg/s1600/08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AW_gQeYvsWY/T1xK80t6bkI/AAAAAAAAAGc/RsdDNvA7Hsg/s320/08.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>15. Justin Bieber is everywhere. As are Chris Brown and Usher. </div><div>16. If you spend an hour trying to hang a mosquito net, be certain it is hung the correct way or getting into an out of bed will require contortion.</div><div>17. Bangatans are amazing at remembering names. I am terrible.</div><div>18. Befriend a four year-old. Especially if you are going into a homestay not knowing the local language.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OIFCM-qHF7k/T1xMDdPyI_I/AAAAAAAAAG0/Y98HFXeUwPA/s1600/37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OIFCM-qHF7k/T1xMDdPyI_I/AAAAAAAAAG0/Y98HFXeUwPA/s320/37.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>19. Nike got it right. Sometimes you've got to "Just Do It", even if you don't understand why you're being asked to eat a seventh chapati, wash your feet before school when you walk through a river, or taken an umbrella when it's hardly drizzling. (Just sure not to forget the umbrella at school...)</div><div>20. Bangatans are always "sorry" for each other— Working in the field, walking home from school, visiting a friend's house, and playing soccer are all valid reasons for people told "Pole" (Sorry).</div><div>21. A heaping bowl of 'chips' (aka greasy french fries) is a well-balanced meal.</div><div>22. Tanzanian/Kenyan mangoes are perhaps the most delicious fruit I have ever eaten. Just beware of the occasional one with bugs living inside.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZQsdCro8lM/T1xMMR4QyuI/AAAAAAAAAG8/BHprxRD6F9U/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZQsdCro8lM/T1xMMR4QyuI/AAAAAAAAAG8/BHprxRD6F9U/s320/19.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>23. If you give a kid a pack of gum, the whole neighborhood will have a piece in a matter of minutes. If you give a kid a piece of chocolate, the whole neighborhood will gather around you in a matter of minutes.</div><div>24. HAND-WASHING CLOTHES FOR DUMMIES: 1. Wash with soap. Technique is key 2. Wash with clean water 3. Rinse again 4. Hang to dry INSIDE OUT</div><div>25. REVISED #24: Attempt to replicate what siblings are doing while Mama watches, mumbles something to under Mama, and laughs. Watch as she re-washes your clothes.</div><div>26. Be prepared for a four-hour church service. Even if there are empty benches you will sit shoulders touching, eight to a bench.<br />
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Here are some more photos to paint a better picture of the last three weeks in Bangata!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6d6EsX6pZIg/T1xN3JUUO4I/AAAAAAAAAHE/3qQaEQ9HVK8/s1600/00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6d6EsX6pZIg/T1xN3JUUO4I/AAAAAAAAAHE/3qQaEQ9HVK8/s320/00.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My home is the white one! Another student, Jake, stayed in the orange one next door. Our Babas (fathers) are brothers and Bibi (their mother) lives on the other side of our house. This is one of the rare moments when there aren't kids running around the 'complex'.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gqfm9V56G0E/T1xPGbX8w3I/AAAAAAAAAHc/01UbjSir7bA/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gqfm9V56G0E/T1xPGbX8w3I/AAAAAAAAAHc/01UbjSir7bA/s320/04.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="font-size: 13px;">From right to left: Our house, Bibi's house, an unfinished home (another one of Baba's brother's) that serves as an optimal playground. The choo (bathroom) that we share is behind the unfinished home.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ttWRLgA1aKs/T1xQwS87zPI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Dk24grlVqWk/s1600/06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ttWRLgA1aKs/T1xQwS87zPI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Dk24grlVqWk/s320/06.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">View of Mt. Meru from the choo.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jbH95lPHajc/T1xPKjn3a-I/AAAAAAAAAHk/qbKQTLfEyB4/s1600/05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jbH95lPHajc/T1xPKjn3a-I/AAAAAAAAAHk/qbKQTLfEyB4/s320/05.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div><div style="font-size: 13px;">The kitchen where Mama works her magic over a wood-burning stove, usually with a cell-phone in her mouth as a light.</div></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fYuPbQvt_rg/T1xPMuxHVnI/AAAAAAAAAHs/hFnN0ZW23M4/s1600/01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fYuPbQvt_rg/T1xPMuxHVnI/AAAAAAAAAHs/hFnN0ZW23M4/s320/01.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><div style="font-size: 13px;">My room!<br />
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</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBg_kpa3H-s/T1xTP_7ZcMI/AAAAAAAAAIc/iUBpNFSvDdI/s1600/09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iBg_kpa3H-s/T1xTP_7ZcMI/AAAAAAAAAIc/iUBpNFSvDdI/s320/09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The front yard.<br />
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</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-koDqsfri3TY/T1xTROL2xiI/AAAAAAAAAIk/xnrmXvnt3qA/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-koDqsfri3TY/T1xTROL2xiI/AAAAAAAAAIk/xnrmXvnt3qA/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px;"><tbody>
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<div style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YeBuwJZITVE/T1xUMLx3YKI/AAAAAAAAAI0/SdOy2_P43lY/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YeBuwJZITVE/T1xUMLx3YKI/AAAAAAAAAI0/SdOy2_P43lY/s320/11.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">River crossing on the way to school. </div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1R4Q4JsjsKE/T1xUq7LoaxI/AAAAAAAAAI8/jc1VBhDTQBg/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1R4Q4JsjsKE/T1xUq7LoaxI/AAAAAAAAAI8/jc1VBhDTQBg/s320/12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If you look very closely you can see my home on Kivesi Hill in a small village called Ngiresi. The photo was taken close to our school in Bangata. (To clarify, Ngiresi is part of Bangata)</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sHwWBKmJz-E/T1xV1-yt6uI/AAAAAAAAAJE/eBYS6f4AEw8/s1600/13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sHwWBKmJz-E/T1xV1-yt6uI/AAAAAAAAAJE/eBYS6f4AEw8/s320/13.jpg" width="320" /></a></span><br />
My 3 year-old sister Glory, more commonly called 'Baby'.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ofUgrn46qK8/T1xWpED4QxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/-LP-UjA1zBE/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ofUgrn46qK8/T1xWpED4QxI/AAAAAAAAAJM/-LP-UjA1zBE/s320/14.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">My 10 year-old brother Erick, nicknamed 'Mba'.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Me, Baby, and Doli. Doli lives next door (she is one of Jake's homestay sisters) and had always got my back. She's awesome.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YYeS6u7b0Wo/T1xYGD4MdQI/AAAAAAAAAJc/dPKqVlyis_Q/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YYeS6u7b0Wo/T1xYGD4MdQI/AAAAAAAAAJc/dPKqVlyis_Q/s320/16.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="212" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span>Doli, Baby, and Lilli, who also lives next door.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">For class on Wednesday, we took a trip to Arusha (the closest city) to practice our Swahili at the Sokoni (market). We were given money to barter for the ingredients to make fruit salad, chai masala, and guacamole. The next day we cooked up a feast!<br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ouIDGYFKihE/T1xabcM-CiI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/0Uavc8yJGbw/s1600/20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ouIDGYFKihE/T1xabcM-CiI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/0Uavc8yJGbw/s320/20.jpg" width="213" /></a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Emma and Addie showing off our fruit salad display, complete with fresh bananas, oranges, mangoes, pineapple and watermelon.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">One of several waterfalls in Bangata.</span></span><br />
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</span></span>The boys soakin' in Matt's 21st birthday.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Our new friend Emmanuel who led us to the waterfall (and insisted on picking me up).</span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CwR4TRWyCF4/T1xejtnyrPI/AAAAAAAAAK0/cooJumnHI9I/s1600/29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CwR4TRWyCF4/T1xejtnyrPI/AAAAAAAAAK0/cooJumnHI9I/s320/29.jpg" width="213" /></a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">I don't think I'll ever get used to how casually little kids carry around machetes here.</span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bmo4VY9Elf8/T1xe5hImL9I/AAAAAAAAAK8/zjObcyefgY0/s1600/30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bmo4VY9Elf8/T1xe5hImL9I/AAAAAAAAAK8/zjObcyefgY0/s320/30.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Safari beer's new advertising campaign.</span></span><br />
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</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-56qjdF0Jb6M/T1xfNcln3ZI/AAAAAAAAALE/lZRGygOd1Zo/s1600/31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-56qjdF0Jb6M/T1xfNcln3ZI/AAAAAAAAALE/lZRGygOd1Zo/s320/31.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
Billboard coming soon.</span></span><br />
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</span></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PHAtnQiC2e4/T1xfcjohRgI/AAAAAAAAALM/4J8qHQX4zP4/s1600/32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PHAtnQiC2e4/T1xfcjohRgI/AAAAAAAAALM/4J8qHQX4zP4/s320/32.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a><br />
Jumping through the waterfall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3RNjGC4YRGQ/T1xghfpDGTI/AAAAAAAAALc/6UAWm3ethv8/s1600/33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3RNjGC4YRGQ/T1xghfpDGTI/AAAAAAAAALc/6UAWm3ethv8/s320/33.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Climbing a cliff to get back to school.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-exU5NjvxtP0/T1xhvbceUNI/AAAAAAAAALk/wsYQ_GWEmrY/s1600/34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-exU5NjvxtP0/T1xhvbceUNI/AAAAAAAAALk/wsYQ_GWEmrY/s1600/34.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">All the girls at our end-of-homestay party. We were all given beautiful, custom-made Tanzanian dresses from our Mamas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;">The boys in an array of 'African attire.' (Photo courtesy of Sam Lovering)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0jx6O79O36Y/T1xiNT7POYI/AAAAAAAAALs/gvub9k1ZG7k/s1600/35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0jx6O79O36Y/T1xiNT7POYI/AAAAAAAAALs/gvub9k1ZG7k/s1600/35.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;">FAMILIA! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;">Top row from left to right: Mama Kabda (Jake's Mama), Festo (Jake's brother), Jake, Me, Mama Levis (my Mama!)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;">Bottom row: Levis (my 15 year-old brother), Babu (Jake's brother), Baby</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;">** Jake's two sisters and brother, my younger brother, and both of our Baba's who work in Nairobi are missing from this picture**</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dXPzgJgzFIg/T1xkQDaDUzI/AAAAAAAAAL8/9wjKwLLvNKI/s1600/36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dXPzgJgzFIg/T1xkQDaDUzI/AAAAAAAAAL8/9wjKwLLvNKI/s320/36.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;">Our amazing Swahili teachers with Tara.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lDYGA98DR0M/T1xktgzX1SI/AAAAAAAAAME/V17Q0rdSY8E/s1600/38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lDYGA98DR0M/T1xktgzX1SI/AAAAAAAAAME/V17Q0rdSY8E/s320/38.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;">Mia and I in our dresses! The cleanest we've been all trip.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px;"><br />
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</tbody></table></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-71245845508341008792012-02-22T04:37:00.000-08:002012-06-04T21:38:45.369-07:00Ithaca is Gorges. Bangata is Beautiful.<span style="font-family: Times;">Although it would take multiple blogs to sufficiently talk about everything that has happened since we arrived in Bangata on Sunday, I have not written a word in my journal. All of my spare time has been spent studying Swahili in hopes of having a decent conversation with my Mama by the time we leave Bangata. (Hey, a girl can dream)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">Rather than trying to detail the ups and downs, miscommunications and misunderstandings, awkward and remarkable moments that have occurred in our first three days of homestay, I am just going to highlight a few things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">1.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">It is only befitting that I start off by thanking Ajeet for the English to Swahili pocket dictionary that he gave me. It has saved my life this week! Incase you haven’t picked up, the language barrier has proven to make simple tasks extremely complex. Although we have 4 hours of Swahili lessons every morning and I feel like I am improving substantially every day, I am constantly frustrated by my inability to express myself and understand others. My go-to word is “Sielewi” (I don’t understand) and I’ve realized that the only thing one can do is to laugh along with those laughing at/with me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">2.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">My immediate family is made up of my Mama, Levis who is 15, Erick (nicknamed Mba) who is 10, and Glory (nicknamed Baby) who is 4. Our Baba works at a hotel in Nairobi but is coming home this weekend. Levis speaks some English (and Mama seems to have picked up some words) which is extremely helpful, although he is gone most the day. We live next door to one of my classmates, Jake, one one side, and Bibi (grandmother) on the other. There are constantly kids running between yards, fetching water and going from one house to another. It is a very communal way of living and Jake and I still aren’t 100% sure who belongs to what family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">3.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">Our house is in a village called Ngiresi located right next to Bangata. The views of Mt. Meru and the sunset from the village are absolutely astounding. In the mornings, I walk to school with several classmates who live nearby. Our walk is down a steep hill, through banana and maize fields, across a river (which I fell into yesterday), and up another steep climb. Even though Mama makes me bathe every morning before school, by the time we arrive I have broken a sweat and my feet are covered in dirt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">4.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">Our house consists of 4 bedrooms and a living room/kitchen. The living room has several couches and chairs, a TV and DVD player, a stereo, a coffee table, a fridge (at least that’s what I think it is), and religious and motivational posters dotting the walls. My favorite is a poster with the 35 “World’s Worst Dictators”— including Hitler, Gaddafi, Hussein, and Margaret Thatcher— which I was told that Baba got in Nairobi. My bedroom is spacious and simple with a full-size bed, a small table, and a chair. I am awaken every morning, at nearly 6 on the dot, to the sound chickens coo-ing outside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">5.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;">My days consists of going to Swahili lessons, doing homework and running around with my classmates at the Center (where class is held), and returning home before dark I am welcomed home to tea, and then attempt to help Mama cook dinner (She is an amazing cook and I am probably just cramping her style), playing with the children, and standing idly by. When dinner is served, around 8PM, the TV is switched on and our evenings so far have been spent with eyes glued to the screen watching a movie called Brothers which I'm pretty they all have memorized. (Levis' other favorite DVD consists of probably a dozen Eddie Murphy movies and a menu that is in Chinese)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">6. The first night in Bangata, I was woken abruptly in the middle of the night by Mama yelling outside my door. Since I had no idea what she was saying and didn't know the Swahili for "hold on", I jumped out of bed and rushed to cover up my legs with my kanga. She came into the room shining a flashlight around, still yelling, as I stood in confusion saying "Sielewi!". I was then pulled into another bedroom where she shined the light on a bunch of ants crawling around the concrete floor and then threw salt at them. I was then escorted back into my room where the light was shone again light a spotlight once more before she left. Unsure what had just happened or what to do next, I crawled back into bed. Around 3 AM I was woken again my what sounded like a violent chicken fight in living room. It's funny how chickens (and 4-day-old chicks!) parading through the house, jumping on couches, and being chased out, has become a norm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"> A few other afterthoughts that I do not have time to elaborate on:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">- My family does not have a kitchen table and eats on the couch, often with our hands, with I thoroughly enjoy. (See Dad, table manners are overrated) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">- People here have the cleanest clothes I've ever seen. And let me tell you, hand washing is NOT an easy task.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-78764000502952911782012-02-18T06:59:00.000-08:002012-02-18T06:59:00.075-08:00Photo Time!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-onHkmSdfz0k/Tz-wIESE5XI/AAAAAAAAAD0/sfiOWoq5E3g/s1600/meru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-onHkmSdfz0k/Tz-wIESE5XI/AAAAAAAAAD0/sfiOWoq5E3g/s320/meru.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view of Mt. Meru from our first campsite at Nderokowoi ranch. Our tents were just to the right.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pc7X8NygSfA/Tz-wLOZ7IkI/AAAAAAAAAD8/vax1xxjlv6o/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pc7X8NygSfA/Tz-wLOZ7IkI/AAAAAAAAAD8/vax1xxjlv6o/s320/sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Nderokowoi.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PpNIuMa-Itw/Tz-wQwOwEKI/AAAAAAAAAEE/PIfWoc21vHI/s1600/church.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PpNIuMa-Itw/Tz-wQwOwEKI/AAAAAAAAAEE/PIfWoc21vHI/s320/church.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After our first Sunday morning church service. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nr77LB3goqM/Tz-yazOgP8I/AAAAAAAAAEM/V0cqtAFdmBA/s1600/pic1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nr77LB3goqM/Tz-yazOgP8I/AAAAAAAAAEM/V0cqtAFdmBA/s320/pic1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zebras and giraffes hanging out by the watering hole.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SKYkcY0tlkM/Tz-yiKujISI/AAAAAAAAAEU/sDz3cwjmktI/s1600/pic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SKYkcY0tlkM/Tz-yiKujISI/AAAAAAAAAEU/sDz3cwjmktI/s320/pic2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babu Likki- the grandfather of our group and one of the wisest people I've ever met. His knowledge of Tanzanian wildlife (and life in general) is endless. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q75-S1p_vS0/Tz-yn4JjOSI/AAAAAAAAAEc/m1H1cz93ES4/s1600/pic3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q75-S1p_vS0/Tz-yn4JjOSI/AAAAAAAAAEc/m1H1cz93ES4/s320/pic3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Onesmo- a Massai senior warrior who joins us on safari. This picture was taken inside of a Massai women's home, called a boma. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TjwYW1KOTr0/Tz-y3qsIdQI/AAAAAAAAAEk/fZ4CkuWQSms/s1600/pic4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TjwYW1KOTr0/Tz-y3qsIdQI/AAAAAAAAAEk/fZ4CkuWQSms/s320/pic4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt with Mike, a modern Massai (as you can see by his jeans compared with Onesmo's red robe). Massai warriors hunt lions that attack their livestock. When a lion is killed, the warrior who threw the first spear gets the lions tail and the warrior who thew the second spear gets the paw. Mike has two tails and a paw.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jICmVuyyQZA/Tz-y5kPVqNI/AAAAAAAAAEs/Y4DcxEfyjmY/s1600/pic5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jICmVuyyQZA/Tz-y5kPVqNI/AAAAAAAAAEs/Y4DcxEfyjmY/s320/pic5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alex, our resident bird expert. He can identify thousands of species of birds before I can even spot them.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3g-BYA58_LI/Tz-5nA0jUXI/AAAAAAAAAFk/p7F9eFA1khA/s1600/muzumbai.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3g-BYA58_LI/Tz-5nA0jUXI/AAAAAAAAAFk/p7F9eFA1khA/s320/muzumbai.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our campsite at a Swiss chalet just outside of Muzumbai rainforest. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aGnSrJS9OiE/Tz-5h9w4GXI/AAAAAAAAAFM/0DV3AMh9G3Q/s1600/mangos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aGnSrJS9OiE/Tz-5h9w4GXI/AAAAAAAAAFM/0DV3AMh9G3Q/s320/mangos.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious mangoes. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtIiEfwTHug/Tz-5p3ZYZEI/AAAAAAAAAFs/Xw24bPa_6aE/s1600/people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtIiEfwTHug/Tz-5p3ZYZEI/AAAAAAAAAFs/Xw24bPa_6aE/s320/people.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of the gang at Tarangire.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sUPf0FmT6lU/Tz-5dFXMeNI/AAAAAAAAAE0/QtCWz5NznVA/s1600/bird.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sUPf0FmT6lU/Tz-5dFXMeNI/AAAAAAAAAE0/QtCWz5NznVA/s320/bird.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> A superb starling. They would literally land inches from you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FjS3XUNqpcM/Tz-5rVYCmiI/AAAAAAAAAF0/V-9nhupHFuE/s1600/ruminants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FjS3XUNqpcM/Tz-5rVYCmiI/AAAAAAAAAF0/V-9nhupHFuE/s320/ruminants.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our all-girl ruminants group (minus Eliza who took the picture) with Samuel Sr.our driver. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3xjSibmDKzY/Tz-5lRq5zAI/AAAAAAAAAFc/2sTPIyn0RRU/s1600/monkey.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3xjSibmDKzY/Tz-5lRq5zAI/AAAAAAAAAFc/2sTPIyn0RRU/s320/monkey.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baboon piggy back ride.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pjXvaIaUs9A/Tz-5tOo1flI/AAAAAAAAAF8/AKhtQUBUSFI/s1600/storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pjXvaIaUs9A/Tz-5tOo1flI/AAAAAAAAAF8/AKhtQUBUSFI/s320/storm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afternoon showers abrewin'.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SHlNXKiwgoo/Tz-5vZPh0qI/AAAAAAAAAGE/99tTgTORO0g/s1600/sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SHlNXKiwgoo/Tz-5vZPh0qI/AAAAAAAAAGE/99tTgTORO0g/s320/sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset on a game drive :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nsyKnhJxkQk/Tz-5w2jnpjI/AAAAAAAAAGM/1MFyiqthDLg/s1600/taringare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nsyKnhJxkQk/Tz-5w2jnpjI/AAAAAAAAAGM/1MFyiqthDLg/s320/taringare.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our tents under the Baobab tree at Tarangire.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ueRvwxs3hg0/Tz-5gfLmfII/AAAAAAAAAFE/naJDi5RLn8w/s1600/healer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny being "healed" (slash having her fortune told) by a traditional Massai healer. I was told that I will live a long life, take after a family member in being a leader, and have a first-born son...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7WGZbXcyjE0/Tz-5kRfT0eI/AAAAAAAAAFU/e9ic6udLWvk/s1600/massai.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7WGZbXcyjE0/Tz-5kRfT0eI/AAAAAAAAAFU/e9ic6udLWvk/s320/massai.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Massai healer's boma. He has 25 wives and over a hundred children that all live there. It's basically it's own city. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-80153219512713308062012-02-17T23:05:00.002-08:002012-06-04T21:42:28.805-07:00Animals Galore<div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> To follow up the novel I posted last week, I’m going to keep this update short and sweet and let my pictures do this talking! </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> Our group arrived back in Arusha a couple hours ago, after a week-long safari to Tarangire National Park and Lake Minyara National Park. In Tarangire, we camped under a huge Baobab tree. Legend has it that a long time ago God was angry and ripped the all the Baobab trees out of the ground and put them back in upside down which is why the branches look like roots. We split into three groups— ruminants (animals that chew their cud), non-ruminants, and birds– to conduct studies in the morning. As part of the ruminant group, we drove around from 8AM until 11AM searching for and observing impala, dik-dik, giraffes, and waterbucks. Although the ruminants seemed to be successfully avoiding us and we spent most our time struggling to collect data on skittish impala, watching animals for an extended period of time really augments your appreciation of them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> Confined to our campsite after lunch, we all crowded in the shade to avoid the unbearable afternoon heat. At 4PM each day we jumped into the safari cars to go on game drives. When my parents dropped me off at the airport, my dad gave me a bell to ward off large animals that he wished for me to see “at a sufficient distance”. Well, turns out animals don’t care too much what parents wish (sorry dad). Elephants paraded by close enough to touch, baboons played and swung on all sides of us, families of warthogs with hilarious comb-overs dogged our vehicles, and the most spectacular birds I have ever seen, including enormous ostriches, surrounded us. Although you are prohibited from leaving the Land Rovers in the park, we couldn’t contain ourselves when we were greeted by a rare afternoon shower and ran around like crazy people, rinsing off the layer of dirt that covers our skin, as the Tanzanian drivers laughed at us. The sunsets on these game drives were no doubt some of the most breath-taking I’ve ever seen— it was nearly impossible to take a bad photo. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> On Wednesday, we headed to Mto Wa Bu (meaning “Mosquito River”), a village right outside of Lake Minyara National Park, where we stayed at busy, well-kept campsite with a pool that we took full advantage of. We went on a “cultural tour” around the town where we had the opportunity to test out our bartering skills on wood carvings, paintings, and Tanzanian soccer jerseys. Although many people didn’t bring money with them, the artists allowed us to take what we wanted as long as we promised to come back and pay the next day. This is certainly not America!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> On Thursday morning, we headed to Lake Minyara Park to find more ruminants, and came across hippos, wildabeest, and a lioness feeding on a buffalo carcass! (Don’t worry, this was from a sufficient distance). Last night we got our groove on at a disco in town where one of the few local people in attendance was wearing a St. Louis Cardinals shirt! Our stay in Mto Wa Bu brought up lots of questions about the tourism industry and the impacts of National Parks on nearby villages which we will continue to discuss as we travel around. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> This weekend, we have much needed time off to catch up on things and celebrate two birthdays before we begin our three week homestay in Bangata on Sunday! We got information about our families along with a picture last week. My family has three children (2 boys and a baby girl), 18 chickens, 3 cows, a Mama and a Baba. I can’t wait to meet them!</span></span></div>
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</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-67463916783461443632012-02-10T22:11:00.003-08:002012-02-17T22:47:34.571-08:00Mountain Living<div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">After 3 busy days exploring Arusha— hardly enough to get a taste of it— our group of 28 was split into 2 groups to go on safari (In Swahili, safari means ‘to travel’ or ‘to journey’). On Friday, my group left for a seven hour drive to Muzumbai Tropical Forest, one of the few fully protected tropical areas in Africa.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">If the quintessential view of Africa is of a flat, dry savannah with one Acacia tree (like our first campsite), Muzumbai is far from it. Our safari cars wound through miles and miles of lush, green mountains, villagers balancing loads of fresh fruit and lumber on their heads (my new goal for the trip is to learn to do this), and children running towards us shouting “Muzungu! Muzungu!” (meaning white person) to which we respond “Afriko! Afriko!” The last two hours of the drive were spent ‘’oo’ and ‘ah’ing out the windows at this little-known paradise. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Late afternoon we arrived at a beautiful, Swiss chalet overlooking the rolling Usambara Mountains which are dotted with mountain villages. The rest of the day was spent playing a game of soccer on the mowed lawn beneath our tents, devouring Oakley and the rest of the cook crew’s famous chapati for dinner (In Tanzania, voluptuousness is a sign of health and wealth and they do a great job of ensuring ours), and hanging out in the lit chalet, which is also the park library. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">The next morning we met Mr. Modest, the Manager of the Forest Reserve (who we later learned has a snow skiing diploma. Probably one of the few Tanzanians...), who briefed us on the history, species diversity, and importance of Muzumbai. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">As I mentioned in my last post, greetings are extremely important in Tanzanian culture. We were then given 3 hours to ‘get acquainted’ with the forest. We were asked to leave our cameras, watches and journals, given vague directions, and told to simply go experience it in whatever fashion we so chose— whether than be running through the forest naked (they neglected to mention the number of thorns) or climbing a tree to take a nap. The only guidelines were 1. No swinging on vines since a past SIT student dislocated her shoulder doing so and 2. Come back when the sun is directly above us. With a good combination of fighting my way through the vegetation and sitting quietly on a fallen tree branch as huge blue butterflies circled my head, the time flew by. On the way out, I stop to sit on a rock and listen to beautiful singing coming from a Sunday morning church service in the village below us, illuminating the valley. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">In the afternoon we went on what we thought would be a leisurely educational hike led by Mr. Modest and the park rangers, but which turned out to be a trek up a mountain. Although many of my classmates were not thrilled by the surprise, I couldn’t help but think about the difficulty of daily activities of the people leaving in the vertical villages around us. These places make Ithaca-living look flat. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">On Monday and Tuesday we spent our mornings in three groups collecting data on tree stratification, height, species diversity, and other factors, and then compiled our data onto charts to be presented before dinner. Our afternoons were spent lounging on the lawn, attempting to juggle the soccer ball, washing clothes, and doing readings (drinking tea goes without say). After dinner we sit around playing mafia, Poor Man’s Toe (for all you game-loving friends, I will have to teach you), and celebrity. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Before I left the US, Tyler Fishbone told me to “have conversations with as many people as you can.” On Wednesday, we got a great opportunity. We ventured into a nearby village to talk to the villagers about their lives and perceptions of the forest reserve. We split into four groups— ethnobotany, agroforestry, gender, and fuel wood— to hold focus groups with the help of the foresters who translated. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">When we first got to to the village center, we were greeted by about 10 men standing outside the building, who shook everyones hand with a smile— before realizing that the village center had moved and these were just random people. Just another example of how welcoming and friendly everyone is around here. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">As part of the gender group, we talked with two women and two men, all separately. The moment we walked into the first woman’s home, 5 small children started hysterically crying— a bit uncomfortable but hard to blame them. If you’d never seen a white face before I imagine it would be quite scary. We asked about their families, day-to-day activities, the division of labor, contraception practices, population increases, and education. The first woman was Christian (one of the few in the village), single, has a 1-year old son and plans to open up a restaurant. The second woman was a muslim who claimed to be 35 although her husband said she was 27 (this would never happen in America...). She had four kids and said she “resigned”— If her husband wanted more he could marry another wife. Both she and her husband were farmers although they each have their own land. We were all pleasantly surprised by the strong-will and independence of these women. While most Muslim men in this area have multiple wives (they are Polygamists), both the men we spoke to only had one, which they attributed to the hard financial times. Aside from the first lady, none of the people we interviewed had ever left their little, mountain village. After purchasing a grocery bag full of delicious mangoes for only 1000 shillings (less than $1), we headed back to camp to devour them. Before dinner, we all shared our experiences in the focus groups, definitely one of the highlights of my trip so far. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Nobody was excited to leave Muzumbai yesterday but the car ride down the mountains was equally as majestic. We stopped for a break in a town where some guy took advantage of my spotty Swahili, telling me his name was “Husband” so I decided I should spend the rest of the ride studying vocab to avoid such mixups in the future. (One of my friends meant to say “It was nice to meet you” at the end of her focus group in the village but switched up some words and said, “It’s nice to be fat.”) </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">We met up with the other half the group last night back in Arusha for just enough time to catch up and exchange stories. Headed to Tarangire National Park in a couple hours! Though it seems like our time in Arusha (and therefore, time with internet access) is extremely rushed, on safari our days are full of siesta time. With a truly amazing group of people, I couldn’t ask for anything more. </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Pictures coming soon!</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-52900175918087923022012-02-02T05:40:00.003-08:002012-02-17T22:50:15.851-08:00A Peaceful Beginning<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Hujambo! (Nope, not 'jambo'. Mean Girls got it wrong) I am writing from my tent in the northern Tanzanian bush as zebras cackle outside. But first, let me rewind about a week...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Despite a 12-hour underestimation of travel time (For some reason I was under the impression I arrived at 8AM not 8PM) the flights went smoothly and I was kept entertained by the NOW 77 CD complete with Firework, Club Can't Handle Me, and Forget You. After going through customs, we were greeted outside the airport by Baby Jack, our program director, and Doreen, his assistant (or the "social director" as she likes to call herself) and boarded a bus for a two hour ride in the pitch dark to Nderokowoi Ranch. Although we were all exhausted, we were kept wide awake by the roller coaster of a ride down dirt roads, quickly making friends as we bumped shoulders with one another and crossed our fingers that the bus wouldn't break down. One girl verbalized what we were all undoubtedly thinking, "What the hell are we doing here?!" Halfway there we stopped for a bathroom break and stood dumbfounded by the night ski, exponentially larger than any I've seen before. We made it to camp well after midnight, immediately set up our tents, and ate a fresh-cooked meal before crashing around 3AM. As we fell asleep to hyena and zebra sounds in the dark distance, the surroundings remained a mystery until morning. We awoke to a vast savannah covered in brown grass and scattered with Acacia trees.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Our days at Nderokowoi begin at sunrise over Mt. Kilimanjaro and end with a beautiful, yellow sunset over Mt. Meru. Although I'm not used to the 6AM to 9PM schedule, I've quickly grown to love it. No matter what the activities of the day consist of, there's always time set out for tea to unwind, socialize, and refill our bodies with caffeine. We have morning teatime before breakfast, mid-morning teatime before lunch, and afternoon teatime around four o'clock. In fact, I should probably change the name of this blog to "Tea Time". Although it may seem excessive, it's really nice to have the day built around this relaxation and conversation time instead of trying to squeeze it in to an impossibly busy schedule as I tend to do.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Class" takes place in a circle and is regularly interrupted as people spot animals grazing in the distance and baboons swinging in the trees. It is also never linear- we will be learning basic Swahili one moment, discussing the best clubs in Arusha the next, and distinguishing between national parks and wildlife reserves a minute later. The last couple days, we've divided into groups led by Tanzanians to bird and wildlife life, study ecology, and visit a Masai boma. In the evenings, we take turns going on night safaris where we've seen impala, zebra, wildabeast, dik-dik, owls, and feral cats, among other animals native to the area.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">On Sunday, after a few days of getting to know each other and the program, we put on our Kangas- long, patterned skirts given to us as a gift from the SIT staff- to go to church, for our first real cultural experience. I sat back and took in the beautiful singing, simple danging, and passionate chanting, as birds flew in and out of the open, stained-glass windows. Although we did not understand a word of what was being said, I couldn't help but smile along with everyone else in the church as the spirited preacher gave his sermon by heart. The service was followed by 'Thanksgiving', a food auction to raise money for the church. After singing Lion King sounds, Head, Shoulder, Knees and Toes, and Waka Waka with some children who made fun of my attempt to introduce myself in Swahili, we drove to a nearby village for our first taste of Tanzanian beer. Beer bottles here are twice the size, have twice the alcohol content, and cost about $1, so needless to say it was a fun afternoon.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">For a quick history of Tanzania... According to Baba Jack, Tanzania is the only Sub-Saharan African country that has "No blood in the ground." While many of the countries surrounding Tanzania (Kenya, Rwanda, Uganda, Zimbabwe, South Africa) are very politicized and the populations are divided by ethnic and religious groups, Tanzania is different. The peaceful transition from British control to independence left Tanzania void of such strife. While Kenyans identify themselves by 'tribe', Tanzanians identify as 'Tanzanian'. Although there are 120 different ethnic groups and languages spoken, Tanzanians are extremely tolerant. Dar es Salaam, the biggest city in Tanzania, translates to 'Haven of Peace' and from what I've experience so far, the name is quite fitting.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday we drove three hours back to Arusha to stay until Saturday morning when we depart for two weeks of safari. Although the bush is astounding, I was itching to get a taste of city life. In the mornings we have Swahili lessons at Klub Afriko, the touristy hotel that we are staying at, and then we're free at 12:30 to explore!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In Swahili, the greeting is the most important part of a conversation. It typically includes several questions- "How are you? How is your family? How is school?" What makes it easy is that the answer is always "Nzuri"- good. Even if you've been puking all night, the answer is "Nzuri kidogo"- a little good. There are no bad days in Tanzania. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3548255788401697111.post-43142644370774700612012-01-24T08:00:00.000-08:002012-01-24T08:33:50.814-08:00The Time Has Come<div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I’ve spent years yearning to live in Africa, months researching study abroad programs, and weeks brainstorming a clever name for this blog (to little avail). In fact, <i>waiting</i> for this experience has become so habitual that I’ve almost forgotten that something will come of all the anticipation. Even as my friends post updates from Ecuador, London, and Italy, my own departure feels like an asymptote which will never be reached. And because I can’t fathom that the day is here, I spent most of winter break gathering stuff for our apartment<i> next fall</i> instead of getting ready for Tanzania... oops. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> As I’ve talked to family and friends about my upcoming semester, the responses I’ve gotten have been pretty standard. In order of least to most frequent— genuine excitement, a suggestion of my ludicrousness, sorrow for my parents, or sheer confusion as to where Tanzania is and whether it’s the same as place as Tasmania (it’s not). This initial reaction is usually followed by a few questions— What will you be doing there? Why’d you choose Tanzania?— with the answers now rolling off my tongue as effortlessly as my college list did senior year of high school. Aside from the customary warning to be safe and avoid getting sick, the conversation typically ends at that. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> However, a couple weeks ago at a burger joint with my great-aunt Cookie, I was caught off guard. “But WHY are you going to Tanzania?” she insisted, clearly unsatisfied by my rehearsed answers. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> While there are a multitude of reasons why I chose this program which include the 30 nights of camping, hearsay of Tanzanian friendliness, and the fact that English is one of the country’s official languages, I want to be sure to dispel the notion that I’m going to Tanzania “to help the poor Africans” or "save the world" as my doctor put it yesterday. That is far from the truth. I am going to Tanzania to better understand and deepen my respect for their culture, history, and lifestyle; To observe their interactions with the natural environment and participate in a society different from the one I’ve grown up in; To relieve my curiosity, meet awesome people, and see first hand the possibility for <i>another way of living</i>. It’s probably more accurate to say I’m going to Tanzania to <i>be helped.</i> </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> This blog is a place to break misconceptions about Africa, communicate with family and friends back home in an economical fashion (compared to a $5 per min Verizon phone call), and most importantly, tell stories. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 15.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> Despite my negligible Swahilian vocabulary— consisting primarily of phrases from the Lion King— and the intimidating life supply of medication stashed in my backpack, I could not be more excited. It will certainly be a long, phoneless day of travel from St. Louis to Detroit to the Netherlands to Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, but if my patience has lasted this long, what’s another few hours? The wait is finally over! It’s Tanzania Time. </span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br />
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