guinnad

 I think it's time for me to put some thoughts down in words. 2009 has been quite a year for me, and quite an emotional one so far. As I've packed up my rooms in Parkland and Arvada and unpacked again up in Boulder, it has felt as though I've been reliving so many memories from so many years that I sometimes forget how old I am or what I'm doing these days. I've found notes I passed in class in high school, birthday cards from my seventh birthday, and just about anything else that happened between those years.

Just now, as I unpacked a box filled with cards from my college graduation, as has often been the case in these last few months, I ended up in tears. Half of it was the amazing words of support, praise, well wishes, and love that i received on the cards. And the other half was growing closer to the full realization that I will not be going back to PLU this fall. It's still not something that has entirely set it. But slowy, and painfully over the last four months, I have begun to realize that I am leaving one of the most wonderful communities I have encountered.

I don't know why all those corny graduation cards show so much celebration. It was downright depressing to me. For me it was as if I were being yanked out of my home, plucked from amidst my closest friends, and unceremoniously dumped off the back of a moving vehicle. I couldn't ever imagine why I would want to leave my house on 120th with it's disfunctional dryer, overgrown yard, half broken blinds and poorly sealed windows. I had no desire to leave that place because of the friends that I knew were within its doors - Katherine sitting on the love sac, surrounded my math books and watching a movie, Zach watching the Canadian news on his laptop, Megan emptying groceries from Trader Joes into the fridge, and whoever else happened to be spending the evening with us for purposes of homework, conversation, or dinner and a few glasses of wine. 

And I wasn't the only one. We were all pretty sad about leaving, and for a few weeks, there was quite a somber and gloomy about the house. But I guess all good things, all good things, come to an end. Even the family dinners that ended with three or four empty bottles of wine. Even the late nights spent watching movies instead of doing homework. Even the dancing in the kitchen and the wrestling in the dining room, the singing in the shower and the laughing on the beds. 

Though I'm still sad about leaving that place - hence the crying over the graduation cards today - I have come to somewhat of a compromise with my sorrow. I have realized that it's ok to be sad. I don't have to feel happy about this transition right away. I can mourn leaving. It's healthy. It means that I am appreciating all that it was. It is a tribute to how great it all was, how meaningful and special those times were, and how wonderful the people are. 

Being home this summer has been wonderful. It has reminded me exactly why I came back to Colorado. I think I was worried that it was something of a cop out - the easy thing to do - to come back home. While I think it is incredibly important to challenge myself, stretch my boundaries, and purposefully put myself in situations where I find diversity and adversity, I have come to believe over the last year that there is nothing wrong with surrounding myself with those I love and that with which I am most comfortable. I love being around people who share similar core values and stories, people who appreciate the same simple joys and grand spectacles, people who have passion and just love living. I don't mean to make everyone sound like a clone when I say that. I just feel like I fit in well here.

Maybe I can put it best this way - I have spent more time with my family in the last two months than I have in the last three years, and I can see the mountains out my window. And while I still am mourning leaving PLU, I have already started making, and remaking, memories in this place.

As usual, I'm finding what other people have to say about the incredible events of the past week vastly superior to anything I could conjure. So I'd like to share a couple of my friends thoughts on the historic week we've just had:

First, an email my friend Matt, who is spending the semester doing an internship in Washington D.C., wrote to his family:


Today the District of Columbia is alive with Hope.

It is impossible to get a newspaper anywhere. Literally every street corner or coffee shop is out of papers. There was a line outside the Washington Post today, just to get a paper.

History was made last night. A man who 143 years ago would have been a slave and who just 50 years ago was finally called "equal" will now be called President of the United States.

Cheering and yelling and singing the national anthem outside the White House last night is something I will never forget. And the thing I will never forget is the pride I felt. To me, and I'm sure to you, Barack Obama is more than just the "first african american president" and he is more than just a president. To me and to millions he is Hope for our future. The amount of young people in front of the White House, our "apathetic" generation has taught me a lesson bigger than anything else I have learned in DC. What it truly means to hope.

Kenya declared Thursday a national holiday in honor of Barack Obama. A nation celebrating our victory knowing that generations of Kenyans may never see an election without bloodshed. The message of Barack Obama's hope has been felt throughout the world. I have received emails from friends studying abroad saying people have been congratulating them on something they thought America would never do. Congratulating them on Change.

I am so lucky and proud not only to live in such a great nation that allows me the freedom to choose, but also in a household that taught me that ideals are important, and that Hope and Change are possible. And for that I am forever grateful. I was raised in a place where I learned that something better can be achieved, and to do something about it.

Last night, family, we did something about it.

DC is full of Hope today, and its about damn time.


At 8pm, Pacific Coast Time On Tuesday night I had the same feeling as Matt described. "Yes We Can," the slogan used by Barack Obama in one of his speeches during the primaries that was turned into an internet hit by musician Will.i.am, was quickly turned into "Yes We Did" and at that point in the evening, it seemed spot on.

But even as celebrations were kicking into gear, it became evident that Propisition 8 in California, banning gay marriage, was going to pass. Similar initiatives in Arizona and Florida had passed early in the evening, along with on in Arkansas banning same-sex couples from adopting children. But the California vote was incredibly surprising as it overruled a court ruling from May, which had legalized same-sex marriage.

One of my best friends from high school, who came out as a homosexual two years ago, sent me an excellent article by Andrew Sullivan and his response (including some of the text from the CA court ruling that had legalized same-s ex marriage in May):


I understand that gay marriage is a delicate issue and that many Americans are against it, but marriage is NOT a heterosexual privilege; it is a basic civil right.  Its creation predates Christianity, as historians have traced matrimonial bonds to Greek and Roman antiquity, and yet the anti same-sex marriage argument seemingly stems from the Christian liturgy.  If true believers do, indeed, base their opposition to same-sex marriage on the 'sanctity' of the institution, then they must also adequately explain how the Church (whichever it may be) monopolized what was once a civil partnership.  Marriage, in addition to providing certain legal and fiscal benefits, is simply the official recognition of one couple's love and commitment, something from which certain individuals should not be excluded.

I look forward to one day telling my grandchildren that I cast my first presidential vote for our first African-American president.  I hope I can also tell them that, even if they're born gay, they can share the same goals and aspirations as anyone else.

Here is a brief excerpt from the California Supreme Court ruling which legalized same-sex marriages in May--I think they did a fair job of discussing exactly what was (and apparently still is) at stake:

'A number of factors lead us to this conclusion. First, the exclusion of same-sex couples from the designation of marriage clearly is not "necessary" in order to afford full protection to all of the rights and benefits that currently are enjoyed by married opposite-sex couples; permitting same-sex couples access to the designation of marriage will not deprive opposite-sex couples of any rights and will not alter the legal framework of the institution of marriage, because same-sex couples who choose to marry will be subject to the same obligations and duties that currently are imposed on married opposite-sex couples. Second, retaining the traditional definition of marriage and affording same-sex couples only a separate and differently named family relationship will [...] impose appreciable harm on same-sex couples and their children, because denying such couples access to the familiar and highly favored designation of marriage is likely to cast doubt on whether the official family relationship of same-sex couples enjoys dignity equal to that of opposite-sex couples. Third, because of the widespread disparagement that gay individuals historically have faced, it is all the more probable that excluding same-sex couples from the legal institution of marriage is likely to be viewed as reflecting an official view that their committed relationships are of lesser stature than the comparable relationships of opposite-sex couples. Finally, retaining the designation of marriage exclusively for opposite-sex couples and providing only a separate and distinct designation for same-sex couples may well have the effect of perpetuating a more general premise - now emphatically rejected by this state - that gay and same-sex couples are in some respects "second-class citizens" who may, under the law, be treated differently from, and less favorably than, heterosexual individuals or opposite-sex couples.'
--California Supreme Court, in 're Marriage Cases', 15 May 2008


After watching so many of my friends moved to tears of joy Tuesday night, my evening ended seeing my roommate break down in tears of sorrow as Prop 8 passed and actually took away some of his civil rights, along with many other American citizens'. We may have overcome one piece of our past last night, but we need to remember that we still have much work to do.

We cannot yet say "Yes We Did." If we think we have done it already, we have missed the entire point of Will.i.am's song and Obama's speech. We have blazed a trail towards freedom, women have reached for the ballots, we have followed a King to the mountain top, and we have now have chosen Change from our past and Hope for our future. And yet, we have failed to extend all those promises to every citizen of this country.

A girl in one of my classes the next day said that it's now possible for any one of us to be president, and I couldn't help but think "Unless you're gay, or you're a Muslim, or ..." 

It sent chills down my spine on Tuesday night to watch Obama's speech. My only regret was that my roommate, my friend from high school, and any other homosexual person in the country couldn't feel the entirety of the joy that Matt felt in the streets of D.C., I felt in Tacoma, and millions of others across the country shared.

I think the most important thing to remember right now is the last line of the Sullivan article, which is used in Will.i.am's song and is lifted from one of Obama's speeches:

"In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about Hope."

So with Matt in D.C. and all of my friends and family across the country, I hold on to Hope, for my roommate, for my friend from high school, for homosexuals across the country, for Muslims, for women, for anyone oppressed, that our next president will truly reach out not to just a "straight America," or a "Christian America," or even a "liberal America," but to a United States of America.

So I've been back in the states for a little over two weeks now. I'm mostly moved into my room on campus, classes have started, and life is getting back to its chaotic self for me. But there's something different. I guess it should be obvious, but it's so easy to fall back into the comfort of former routines, go back to living like I was last year. Not to say that there is anything all that wrong with how I was living, but now that I have a new perspective on so many things, it just doesn't quite fit anymore.

Probably the biggest thing I've taken away from the last eight months is an awaresness of my lifestyle, and the effects it has on the world. I'd never thought much about how a meal reached my plate, who was growing the coffee beans or the tea leaves that provided me with a hot drink, or how convenient it has become to hop in the car instead of walking or riding a bike. I guess the big thing that corresponds with all of this is perspective. I have an entirely new perspective on life and the ways to live it.

A mile may be a lot farther on a bike, but it also has so much more to offer than out the window pane of a car. A cup of tea or coffee may give me the caffine I need to stay up and finish my homework, but who really got the money for producing it (I'd like to add that, although probably the best option available to U.S. consumers, fair trade coffee is not all that fair to the farmers who are growing the beans. Next time you buy fair trade, ask whoever is selling it to you what percentage of the beans are required to be fair trade for them to put that sticker on there. Also ask them how much the farmer got paid per pound of coffee and compare it to what you are paying. If they don't know, go look it up. In Tanzania, farmers got paid around $3/lb. for their coffee.) and deserves most of the profit? And after sitting for half an hour with a penguin, getting to know its moods, its traits, its personality, it is hard not to question the relationship we as humans have with the rest of the life on this planet.

It's been so great to see everyone back home, and nice to be in familiar, comfortable surroundings. But there is a lot about my lifestyle that I want to change. I know I can't be perfect, and that some of my actions and choices are going to exploit the lives of other people or animals or plants or whatever, but I can make a better effort to be aware, to look for other options and perspectives, and to better define the values that I want to be central in my life. I know I still have a lot of reflecting to do, but I feel like this is a good start, and I have a great community here at PLU to encourage and support me in this next logical progression of my life. It's good to be home again, even if home and myself aren't quite the same as when I left.

Sojourns in the Parallel World, by Denise Levertov

We live our lives of human passions,
cruelties, dreams, concepts,
crimes and the exercise of virtue
in and beside a world devoid
of our preoccupations, free
from apprehension--though affected,
certainly, by our actions. A world
parallel to our own though overlapping.
We call it ´Nature´: only reluctantly
admitting ourselves to be ´Nature´ too.
Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
response to that insouciant life:
cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
animal voices, mineral hum, wind
conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
of fire to coal--then something tethered
in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
No one discovers
just where we´ve been, when we´re caught up again
into our own sphere (where we must
return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
--but we have changed, a little.

One of the things that has changed the most about me after this trip is my relationship with nature and the way I view it. After floating by icebergs and massive glaciers in our tiny, rubber zodiacs, sitting for hours with penguins, this penguin, that penguin, and watching humbacks lunge feeding ten feet from our boat, I don't want to live beside that world anymore. I want to be part of that world on a more active, conscious, and daily level. I don't want to go to that world, live untethered (as I did for J-term), and then come back. I want to move my world into the realm of that world. And I think it's an important place to start if we want that world to be available to not only future generations anymore, but our own as well.

During research for my paper on albatrosses for our class the week after we got back, I found a great foreword that I've now quoted several times. The book is The Plundered Seas: Can the World's Fish Be Saved? by Michael Berrill, and the following is an excerpt from David Suzuki's foreword:

"What has happened? At the heart of the global eco-crisis of which the ocean fisheries are a part is a profound change in the way we perceive the world. In the exuberance of the postwar economic and technological boom, it was easy to believe that we could manage our surroundings and use all of nature for human benefit. Parts of nature became “commodities” or “resources” that could be exploited to the maximum. Modern technology – radar, satellite navigation, huge nylon nets, factory ships – increased efficiency and productivity. […] These shifts in attitude have made us a demanding species capable of altering the biophysical features of the planet.

In this century, the dramatic shift of human populations from rural, village communities to large cities has weakened our personal experience of nature. The vagaries of weather, seasons, and climate impinge on our lives with far less immediacy. So the destruction of vast forests, wetlands, topsoil, deep aquifers or underwater habitat and the consequent extinction of large numbers of species are not readily apparent. Coupled with a global economy based on maximizing profits, constantly expanding markets and the consumer demands of a rapidly growing population, these fundamental attitudes and values have led us, as a species, to wreak havoc on an unprecedented scale. [...]

We can no longer afford not to face up to the reality of what has happened.”

What have we done? How have we managed to let our relationship with the world, with the environment, with the albatross, deteriorate on this scale? Have we forgotten what it is like to stand still for an hour, even ten minutes, and watch a bird soar in front of the sunset? If we are to make a change in our lifestyle, one that is rapidly destroying the world's resources and beauty, we need to start by once again learning to appreciate moments like the one I had, standing on the stern of the Lyubov Orlova, watching five wandering albatrosses soar in front of the setting sun and over the wind-whipped, foam-crested waves. It was a moving moment, and one that made things seem so clear. There, then, it was so easy to see why it is important to save and protect our planet. The beauty of the albatross was captivating, demanding, deploring, crying out for me to see, to feel, to care. And this is only one example of our exploitation of nature.

It may be a small difference, but I have chosen to stop eating meat and fish in protest of the meat and fishing industries in our country, the unsustainable ways they conduct their business and their disregard and indifference to the way they are exploiting our environment in the name of economic gain. And in that decision I can feel my connection and relationship with the world I just left strengthening, growing. I can see the penguins that waddled, hopped, and slid up to curiously examine me. I can feel the wind on my face that buoyed the albatrosses' effortless flight. I can hear the powerful, sudden burst of breath as the smooth, black backs of the humpbacks would break the surface of the deep, blue water. And I know that if I can hold on to those sensations, I may just be able to keep one foot in that parallel world, even while I'm busy changing back in this one.

Just got back from Antarctica. I´ll be in Patagonia for another week or so. Don´t have time to write on here now. If you want to read about it now, go here:

https://sojourner.plu.edu/

Amani, saludos...

As Brice and I were eating a pineapple and playing with the monkeys in the hall today, I realized that was something I probably wouldn't be doing again for a long time. I can't really comprehend right now that we're leaving on Saturday. I can't imagine life without fresh pineapple and banana, life without sweat, life without monkeys, life without daladalas and the Indian Ocean, without Oscar, Innocent, Benson, and Chacha, life with constant running, potable, drinkable, water. 

I am essentially finished with school work for the semester. Last week was crazy - three finals, a paper and a presentation for one class, a research paper for Barbara TT back home, 30 newspaper articles to summarize and comment on (also for BTT), and trying to start going through the process of getting cleared to leave. It feels really good to be done, but also kind of strange.

I'm trying not to think of this as an end. It makes it harder to leave. I don't really see it as a beginning either, although I have a feeling my life back home is going to be entirely different now. I'd rather look at this as a continuation of my life, a logical place to be at this point in time. I don't really feel like I should disect these five months from the rest of my life, because I know that everything that happened before I came was leading up to this semester, and everything that follows will be affected by this semester. Even though it is a terrible, terrible book, Karen Blixen's Out of Africa did have one good quote that I really liked (and have used in my blog before): "Here I am, where I ought to be." And I think that is pretty fitting for where I'm at right now; where I've been is where I should have been, where I am is where I ought to be, and where I'm going is the right place for me to go. 

Matt put it way better than I ever could have. I suggest you go read his blog. 
http://ferrarmd.livejournal.com
It was a lot of fun reading that and having it speak so clearly of my experience, despite the fact that Matt was describing a semester half a world away. 

What can I say about five months? What can I make of it? It's such a long time and such a short time. I haven't even begun to process it yet. I really can't do it justice right now, so you'll have to come back. Thanks for reading throughout the semester, I hope I've managed to convey a somewhat accurate picture of life here, although I really don't feel like it's something that can be transformed into words. I can't wait to see everyone back home in a couple days, or weeks. Amani.

I already have an addition to that list. Last night on the street we found a guy pushing a cart around with glasses and a five gallon bucket of mango juice and a five gallon bucket of avacado juice. Glasses were 200/= each so for fifty cents you could get:

- three glasses of mango juice
- three glasses of avacado juice
- two glasses of mango juice and one of avacado juice
- two glasses of avacado juice and one glass of mango juice
or
- three glasses of avacado juice and mango juice mixed together

(I didn't try that last one, but when I was trying to explain to the guy what I wanted there was a moment, due to my poor Kiswahili, when he thought I wanted to mix the two together. Luckily he knew English pretty well)

You can get any of the following for 600/= (Tanzanian Shillings) or less, which is about the equivalent of a couple quarters, if the exchange rate doesn't fall any farther:

- a plate of rice and beans
- six bananas
- six slices of pineapple
- three slices of pineapple and three bananas, cut up into individual, bite size pieces (and it comes with a toothpick)
- a mango, or two depending on the season
- two massive avocados
- four meat samosas on campus
- two stuffed vegetable samosas with coconut sauce from Habib's
- an Azam Super Ball ice cream cone
- three chapatis cooked fresh in front of you on the street in Arusha
- three cardamom pancakes cooked in a similar fashion
- two daladala rides
- two glasses of sugar cane juice
- a giant bowl of Zanzibar mix (although Habib just jacked up his prices)
- a quarter of a five gallon bucket of tomatoes out of a bus window, if you bargain hard enough

Sitting in an 8' by 10' room on the fourth (or fifth, depending on which floor you start counting on) floor of an apartment building in the Mathare neighborhood of Nairobi, we watch Moses' collection of digital tidbits he has collected. The room, Moses' kitchen, bedroom, living room, and study all in one, is crowded, but luxurious in that Moses is the only one staying in it. Most of the rooms in Mathare are the same size, but are home to entire families. Moses' room is in an apartment block made up of about 8 - 12 rooms per floor. There is no light in the stairways and Brice and Joel and I trip all the way up. The bathrooms are communal for the whole neighborhood and are not very sanitary. There is one place to get water, but often there is none available. The streets are all unpaved, and after the rain in the morning, everything has become a giant mud pit. It is easy to feel like we have reached the utmost depths of poverty. And then, the following story comes on to Moses' computer:

One day, the father of a very wealthy family took his son on a trip to the country with the express purpose of showing him how poor people live.

They spent a couple of days and nights on the farm of what would be considered a very poor family.

On their return from their trip, the father asked his son, "How was the trip?"

"It was great, Dad."

"Did you see how poor people live?" the father asked.

"Oh yeah," said the son.

"So, tell me, what did you learn from the trip?" asked the father.

The son answered:

"I saw that we have one dog and they had four.

We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden and they have a creek that has no end.

We have imported lanterns in our garden and they have the stars at night.

Our patio reaches to the front yard and they have the whole horizon.

We have a small piece of land to live on and they have fields that go beyond our sight.

We have servants who serve us, but they serve others.

We buy our food, but they grow theirs.

We have walls around our property to protect us, they have friends to protect them."

The boy's father was speechless.

Then his son added, "Thanks Dad for showing me how poor we are."

Suddenly the scene around us changes. Instead of the dirt covering the childrens' clothes, we see the smiles covering their faces. Instead of the tiny, run down, rust covered houses we see neighbors sitting together, talking, listening, enjoying each others' company. We hear laughter, excitement, we see community and love. Watching a little boy, also named Moses, around the age of four, left at home alone all day, dressed in a green sweater, cargo shorts, and black galoshes, dance to the music from the neighborhood HIV/AIDS awareness rally, we see that this community is anything but poor. They may not have the houses we have, the cars we have, or the money we have, but they have so much more that we can only hope to have. Most of all they have eachother, and the knowledge that whatever life throws at them, there will always be someone there to share the pain, the sorrow, the suffering, the joy, the love, the triumph that makes life so
beautiful. 

After a lunch of beans, cabbage, lentils, and a chapati in a small, dimly lit restaraunt, we say goodbye to Mathare, say goodbye to the smiling, waving children, say goodbye to the shouts of laughter, smiling ourselves, and left to think about this new perspective. 

Thanks so much to Joel, Mandy, and Lorraine for showing us around Nairobi! I had such a great weekend! It was so much fun to have a mini PLU reunion for the weekend. Also thanks to Moses, Giddeon and family, and Kokoeli for being so welcoming and making sure our time in Nairobi was enjoyable and safe! Asanteni sana. 

I think the coffee farms on the base of Mount Meru outside of Arusha are probably one of the most beautiful places you could ever live. The lush, almost overwhelmingly green vegetation, comprising of coffee trees, banana trees, maize, reeds, bushes exploding with red, purple, and pink flowers, and all sorts of other plants that I have never seen before, is perfectly backdropped by the jagged volcanic peak of Kilimanjaro's little brother Meru, which is often enshrouded in clouds. Small, inobtrusive houses interrupt the green of the rest of the landscape with blotches of red, yellow, blue, and white. Every few minutes you hear the moo of a cow, the cluck of a chicken, or the laughter of a small child. If you happen to be an mzungu like me, the road up the hill will be lined with small children, shyly hiding behind a door, a tree, or their sweatshirt hood, occasionally waving or announcing your presence to their neighborhood playmates. 

And if you head up the right road, eventually you'll arrive at the Mbise coffee farm. I don't know that I've ever met a nicer family. Led by Silas, you'll walk past his family's blue and yellow home and about twenty yards farther to reach his mother's home. Maybe she'll be inside in her room, or maybe she'll be lying outside under the tree, resting her legs, but either way, she'll give you the warmest greeting you'll ever receive, regardless if you know Kiswahili or not. After that you'll be able to spend a fantastic afternoon with the Mbise family, drinking their fresh coffee, straight from the farm (with fresh milk straight from their cow if you're not too Swedish to add it to the coffee), eating a plantain and beef stew straight from the trees outside, and enjoying the company of one of the nicest families you will ever meet. I highly recommend a visit to anybody who gets the chance.




Thanks so much to the Mbises! I had such a fantastic time and am so happy I got to meet you! Asanteni sana, amani na upendo kwa ninyi.

Well, I definitely missed having Thanksgiving with the Guinns, but if I could have had it any other way, I definitely would have chosen the way I did have it. Hilary, Brice, and I bussed up to Lushoto, bought some fresh vegetables, rice, and beans in the market, and cooked them up on a cliffside with our new friend Anka and watched the sun set over the Tanzanian plains. It was pretty spectacular. And nice and cool too, even though Hilary said Brice and I are just wimps and can't handle cold weather anymore. Whatever. She hid in the airconditioned bathroom in the mall today for ten minutes so she wouldn't have to go back outside into the heat. Wimp.

If you are ever in the fantastic little fishing village of Paje on the east coast of Zanzibar, you should definitely ask around and find an old Muslim man named Pando. He's incredibly nice and also has a great little fishing boat which he will gladly hire out (including his services as navigator) for a very cheap price to take you out snorkelling in the Indian Ocean. You'll get to see things like the coolest starfish ever, lots of clown fish, some amazing coral, and pretty much every character from Finding Nemo. Pando doesn't speak much English, and Hilary wasn't too sure his boat was going to stay afloat, but these minor details make the experience all that much more special. 

*(Note to my mother and Lynn: I had no misgivings about the sea worthiness of Pando's boat. There was no way that thing was going to sink or have any problems. After surviving a harrowing boat trip in a much more dangerous vessel over an allegedly crocodile infested river in Tanga, this felt like a cruise liner to me. Plus the water was only about ten feet deep)

So Zanzibar is really cool...

That was amazing. I can't even describe how happy I was to be sitting in a bar watching the Rockies play in a World Series Game. I'm so incredibly jealous of everyone who got to be there, but at least I felt like I was a little part of it from around the world. Absolutely fantastic! Can't wait until next year...

Well we've finally started teaching in the primary school. It has been an adventure, to say the least. Tyler and I went down the first day to see if we could get times to come, and Tyler ended up in the classroom ten minutes later. Luckily for me, the teacher I was paired with had already finished for the day. So I headed back the next morning, not exactly knowing what to expect. 

On the way to the school I got caught in a torrential downpour. I tried standing under a couple trees, and was eventually rescued by a nice lady named Fatuma who rushed me under the porch of a professor's house, but by that point it really didn't matter. I may as well have jumped in a pool with all my clothes on. 

After the monsoon stopped I walked the rest of the way to school wringing out my shirt. I arrived at the school and ran into a teacher who asked if he could help me. I stumbled through an explanation in broken Kiswahili and English and he led me into the teachers' room to find out that the teacher I had been paired with had not come in that day. At this point I kind of figured I wasn't meant to start that day and was about ready to leave when the teacher grabbed a couple pieces of chalk and handed them to me. It didn't hit me at first what he had in mind. That soon changed as he led me into a classroom full of standard six students, introduced me as their new teacher and walked out the door. 

Sopping wet, standing in front of all those students (my first estimate was about 35 or 40. I counted a couple days later. There are 64), waiting for me to teach them an English lesson had to be one of the scariest moments of my life. Somehow I was able to laugh it off and stammer through a lesson, and the next day when I came back to find the teacher missing again, it didn't seem nearly so bad. It's been a lot of fun teaching the students and fascinating to see what a different educational system this country has. And my teacher finally showed up the second week I came in. 

I'm off to get some sleep so I can get up early for the game tonight. Purple is the new pink, rock 'em sock 'em, get 'em while they're hot. Rocktober is happening in Africa tonight!

A belated Eid Mubaraka to everyone! It was amazing to be in Tanzania for a holiday that is celebrated by so many people around the world that I had never heard about until this year. Idd is the day of celebration that marks the end of Ramadan. For the last month, Muslims have been fasting from sunrise to sunset, until last Saturday. Thursday night we sat outside watching for the moon to rise, which would signal that Eid would be the following day and classes would be cancelled. Unfortunately we had to wait one more day and classes got cancelled on Saturday. A couple friends and I went up to Tanga for the weekend, a town on the northern coast with a large Muslim population. Riding bikes through some of the neighboring villages, we were greeted with shouts of "Eid Mubaraka!" and saw several parades of children enjoying the music of drums spilling out of sporatic houses. Later at the soccer game, it seemed like 80% of the fans in the stadium were wearing Islamic outfits of white gowns and hats. And then the streets afterward, packed full of people, children racing donkey carts, street food vendors, soccer players, and a few wazungu (that was me and my friends) wide eyed and open mouthed, were a great way to cap off my first celebration of Eid. Eid Mubaraka, go Rockies!

Welp, I've made it halfway. Two and a half months that have flown, ebbed, stretched, whirred, swirled, and coasted by and two and a half more to enjoy, experience, learn from, hang on to, and live. I don't really feel like I'm at a place where I can reflect on it all yet. It's hard to say exactly what have been the best moments, the worst, the ones that have taught me the most. It's so hard to pick out any single isolated incident or day that can define or capture what life is like here. So many people have been asking for more details, more daily events, more concrete descriptions of life here, and the reason I've been resisting is that I feel like I can't do it justice. I can't paint the picture. I can't really convey how I'm living. But I've decided to try. Here's something like an average day, or as close to average as it gets here:

I first wake up sometime between five and six, and lie in bed listening to the morning call to prayer from the mosque across the street from my dorm. If I'm lucky I can fall back asleep for awhile longer before the sun comes up. Brice and I try and go running around 6 or 6:30. Around 7:30 it's way too hot to run anymore so we head back to the dorms and hope the water is working so we can take a shower. 

Our bathrooms are interesting. Sometimes the sinks work, the toilets work, or the showers work, rarely all of them at once, more often none of them at all. What's working dictates the morning schedule. If it's the showers I run and get my soap, the toilets my toilet paper, the sinks my dirty laundry. After using whatever water is available I usually have about an hour to kill before my first class. Options for this hour include using the internet, reading, journaling, doing push-ups, or going back to bed. 

Classes are really interesting, even if they get a little hot. It's strange being in such huge classes. I remember thinking how big my philosophy class was freshman year with 40 students in it. Here classes are a couple hundred, with people taking up every seat and spilling out into the aisles and down the staircases. I'm taking four classes, which is about half as many as the average UDSM student. African Literature, Philosophy of Religion, Indigenous Music of Africa, and Kiswahili. 

Between classes I usually read, eat, or go back to my room and see if the water is working. Depending on the day, classes end around 4 or 5 (Wednesday not until 8) at which time I find something to do for an hour before dinner. Brice and I throw the frisbee a lot and the campus swimming pool is open now. 

Lunch and dinner are the same every day and I love them. A plate of rice and beans and a plate of fruit, usually bananas and pineapple. On good days the rice and beans come with mchicha (spinach) or cabbage and on really good days they have hot sauce too. During the day I'll usually get a samosa or two at the little shop near our dorm where I also buy water, or sometimes a chapati or kitumbua. When we go out to eat it's usually for some fantastic Indian food, but theres also the occasional hole in the wall place serving rice, ugali, pilau, beans, meat, or chicken in some combination. Street food is absolutely incredible as well, although it's been harder to find in Dar that the other cities I've been to. Chapatis are always good off the street, as well as coffee, crepes, roasted corn, and mishkaki (meat skewers).

We go up on the roof of our dorm quite a bit. It's where we dry our laundry and there's a great view of the city, as well as the Indian Ocean. It's also a great place to watch the sunrise and sunset, but it's little hot during the day. We're on the third (which is really the fourth by American standards) floor, which is closest to the roof. We have a spiral staircase that we use most of the time, but there's a ladder at the end of the hall in case there are too many monkeys on the main stairs. Or Hank. Hank is the baboon. Hank is actually a girl too, but we didn't find that out until after we had christened her. We're pretty sure she likes us because we gave her a banana the other day, but we haven't seen her since then so we're not really sure. She's got some big teeth and is probably about the size of a twelve year old that eats a lot of cake and lifts a lot of weights so we're still pretty cautious. 

Weekends we either buy a bus ticket somewhere or explore downtown. So far I've been to Arusha, Lushoto, Iringa, and Bagamoyo. Still on the docket are Tanga, Dodoma, Zanzibar, and hopefully Nairobi. Buses are fun, but daladalas are better. Daladalas are the local mode of transportation here. I think I described them earlier, but I'll give it another shot. Imagine a vehicle slightly larger than a minivan gutted and then outfitted with fifteen seats in back and three in front. Fill up those seats with people and then add another five more standing in the minimal amount of space near the sliding door. Finally add a Tanzania guy with a long shirt with pockets full of change, constantly busy either hanging out the window or door looking for more passengers, or ducking in and out of all the passengers collecting roughly the equivalent of 20 cents from every passenger and jumping out at every stop to try and herd more people into the already packed van, all the while yelling something like "Posta gari! Posta gari! Gari ya Posta!" then hopping halfway back in, banging on the door twice to let the driver know its time to go. I love daladalas. 

That's all I have for now, I hope it's what everyone was looking for. Reading back over it, I really feel like it's pretty inadequate at actually capturing what life is like here, but it's about the best I can do. Hope everything is going well back home or elsewhere abroad. I can't believe the Rockies have a shot at a sweep tonight! Cheer loud for me. Poa, baadaye.

It's been hard for me to image what things at home in Colorado must be like right now with the Rockies. Absolutely crazy. Funny that they're making this playoff run the year I choose to end up halfway around the world without easy access to a television. It's almost been more enjoyable though. All of our (so far fruitless) efforts to find the games, checking scores on the internet, and best of all, watching pitch-by-pitch updates on MLB's website in the middle of campus on a borrowed laptop at 6am have made it seem that much more exciting. I feel almost like a little kid again reading the box scores. Can't wait for the next game...

It's getting pretty hot here. Brice and I have to run a lot earlier. And we pretty much take a shower whenever we can. I can't imagine what December is going to be like. Ugh. 

Classes are very interesting so far. They've all started with definitions of the title of the course. Sounds pretty boring, and I probably would have thought so a year or two ago, but it's been absolutely fascinating. What is African? How can you put a definition on a word like that? Does it only include the geographical boundaries? Only the people who were born here? Only ideas that promote the values of Africa? Where do you draw the lines? It's fascinating to me. I can't wrap my head around it. 

I've stopped telling people how "Africa" is because I've realized I have no idea how Africa is. I have a faint idea about how Tanzania is, how Dar es Salaam is, how UDSM is, how Hall IV is, how my life is. How small do you go? Can you really stop? And the ironic thing is that the smaller I go, the bigger my thoughts get. It makes me wonder about all the assumptions I've made about reality in my life before, what I've believed to be true without any direct experience with it. What do I really know? 

It's a sobering thought, and one that is hard to think, because it requires me to relinquish my (blind?) pride in all that I "know." I loved reading Matt's last blog about immigration issues from the Mexican side of the border. I wonder how many people have ever thought to explore the realities on the other side of that arbitrarily drawn line. It's amazing how that line - in reality nothing and everything all at once - can have such a harsh judgement. Makes me think about drawing lines. I'll have to be careful from now on.

This was definitely my most bizarre first week of classes that I've ever had, capped off by a great weekend. I love thinking about the things I'm doing in the context of life back home because it all sounds so absurd. Here it's kind of crazy, but nothing too far out of the ordinary. Another month and a lot of crazy adventures behind me, three more months and who knows what kind of fantastic fun ahead. Can't wait to tell you all stories, but for now a plate of rice and beans is calling my name...