Uninvited House Guests

Uninvited Guests

March 19, 2011

Part of the Peace Corps philosophy is that we live like the people in our communities, and I have done my best to blend in.  Recently I discovered that I share an experience that almost every Tanzanian has experienced at least once in their lives: uninvited houseguests, minyoo (worms).  I will spare you all the graphic details, but I was not happy.  I looked in my Peace Corps health book.  Nothing, although it did say that under no circumstances was a volunteer to seek medical care at a facility in their community without permission from the Peace Corps medical officer.  To do so would be grounds for separation.  Ok, sounds serious, so I called my PCMO and he told me to go to the hospital in my village.  My village! I have seen that hospital.  That is where the slow (only kind we have) internet is located.  He wants me to go there?  I went and what a treat it was, because it gave me a rare peak into the world of medical care in a small village in a developing country.

First thing I had to do was open a file.  The man taking down my information on a small scrap of card board asked me the expected questions.  Then he wanted to know the name of my tribe.  I told him that I do not have a tribe.  So he told me to write the name of my tribe in America.  Again, I told him that we do not have tribes in America.  He let it go, but when he returned with my pink hospital pass, I glanced at it and there next to tribe it said “Chaga.”  I always tell people here that I am Mchaga Marekani.  It is true, we are a mixed tribe and do not all speak the same tribal language.  That is why my kichaga (language) is different than theirs.  I also have been given many Chaga names, mostly by old men coming out of the bar late in the afternoon or by crazy people walking along the road or by my girls.  My name is Teresia Mamasawe Makaishe Angel Malaika.  Anyway, now it is official.  It says right there on my card: Chaga.

Back to my story.  The hospital was crowded but I got special attention.  One of the doctors personally took charge of my case (I think he is a doctor).  He moved me from the file desk to the payment desk (the file cost about $1.50) then to an office for consultation and exam.  He went out a few times to borrow the doctor equipment: stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer.  You see the point.  He told me that I would need to be tested so he escorted me to the lab.  The woman handed me a small glass bottle with an opening of about 1 cm and a plastic vial with a small spoon attached to the lid.  Many of you know me, give me a paper and pencil test, no problem, but this was just too much for me.  I tried to ask the doctor and the lab assistant how it would be possible to collect a sample in that small jar.  The doctor thought that I did not know what it was for, so he explained the whole procedure.  Then he said, “Now where do you think you should go to collect the samples?” I was thinking that maybe this was part of the test, but then I remembered that Cheryl had used the hospital restroom before and had described it to me.  No I did not want to go there.  He asked again, and I was going to suggest outside behind a tree, when I remembered that the Lutheran hostel has a decent restroom.  I told him I would go there and then return.  Luckily they had soap in the bathroom that day because I used a lot of it.  Went back to the hospital, turned in my samples to the lab station, and sat down to wait.  Then the power went out.  The lab tech opened her window and told me that the power was out.  I said “I know,” and she said, “Ok, wait.”  After an hour or so, the doctor came and told me that the power was out, what should he do?  I thought that maybe calling Tanesco and telling them to turn it back on might be a good idea, but kept that to myself.  I said that I would return the next morning.  He said “good, that is what we should do,” and he gave me another jar and vial.  Wait one minute, I worked hard for that first test.  Now I have to take a retest?  “Yes, the first one would be destroyed.”  Ok, anything to get rid of those uninvited guests.  All they do is grumble and complain and eat my food!  I went home and gave the test another try the next morning.  However, I know that my first results were better.  I returned to the hospital and the power was on.  The lab tech ran the tests.  Nothing.  The doctor took me back to the office and then ran out and returned with some books.  He said that often tests can be negative but he takes worm pills every three months just to be safe.  Based on my descriptions, he felt sure he knew what it was, so he opened the books to show me different medicines available.  Then he said, “Which one would you like?”  Again, I was confused, feeling like I was in a different world or something.  He insisted that I look at all the choices.  I was kind of partial to the one whose side effects said nausea and diarrhea, but I like to blend in, so I chose the one that said “most commonly recommended.”  We went to the dispensary and my pill was dispensed.  It cost less than 10 cents.

I chewed it early in the morning on an empty stomach and waited all day.  The free loaders were sure taking their time packing their bags.  Probably stealing the silver ware and whatever else they could find.  Finally, the second day, peace and quiet!

PS If any of you were considering this as a weight loss plan, I do not recommend it. It stinks!

People

People

March 18, 2011

            I have been a people watcher for most of my life and have always assumed that I am a pretty good judge of character.  Recently, I have come to realize that my first impressions of many people here may only have been characters that I created in my head.  I viewed Tanzanian people through American eyes.  It was all I knew.  I matched behaviors that I saw to personalities I knew back home.  I judged them according to my standards.  It was my way of making sense of a new and strange environment.  However, my eyes have changed.  They are no longer solely American.  Is it possible that a part of me has become Tanzanian?  Now I often find myself reassessing my opinions of the people I have met.  Culture really makes a difference.  It reminds me of a kaleidoscope.  In one frame you see a certain image, but give it a twist, overlay it with a different culture and the picture changes.  People that I wrote off as lacking in morals or common sense have become good people, but conversely, people that I ascribed with good intentions and kind hearts now seem to have been only serving themselves.  At first this was very troubling for me.  How could I have been so wrong about a person?  How could I have made such a mistake?

            I imagined throwing the kaleidoscope down and the cover coming off, spilling hundreds of tiny, individual crystals out on the floor.  Each one was different, but then again, they all were alike.  Arrange them one way and you see an American, another way, and they have become Tanzanian.  I am beginning to understand.  Strip away the culture and you see the heart.  You see the person.  I have begun to trust my eyes less and rely more on what I feel.  Unfortunately, what I feel most is pain.  For some, like Neema, it is very strong.  It is true, she goes to school now.  She is learning to read and write, but when she leaves the school, her coach becomes a pumpkin again.  She returns to the world she has always known.  She is my house girl without a name.  She lives in fear of making a mistake but in everything she does, she will err.  She does not speak because she will always say the wrong thing.  She does not laugh because the joy has been beaten out of her long ago.  This is the life she knows.  Neema means “grace of God.”  My friends Kris and Keli sent her an angel ornament for Christmas, a white angel carrying a lamb.  I gave it to her when I visited in February.  She smiled and said, “For me?”  Yes, Neema, you are the lamb.  God has sent you a white angel to remind you that you are a very good girl and that you are truly loved.  Let your soul rest in God’s arms for a while.  I said a prayer that she would be allowed to keep the angel.  I prayed that she would always keep the memory. Oh, sad little Neema.

            Who is her tormentor?  Who would beat this slight child with a stick?  My friend, Victoria, that is who.  You are probably thinking, “How horrible,” but if you were Tanzanian, it is very likely that you would do the same. I have stopped separating people here into categories of good and bad based on whether they hit children with sticks.  Now I judge them on how much or how hard they like to hit.  Remove the culture and observe what is there: pain, discouragement, hopelessness, frustration, fear.  We would all like to say that we would do better than this, but faced with the same circumstance, who knows how we would respond.

            There are others whose lives have been so difficult that you would not blame them if they have become cynical and cold-hearted.  You want to congratulate them for having managed to survive.  But when you get to know them you are amazed at the beauty and strength of their spirit.  They have not just survived, they have thrived.  God has protected them for some purpose, like Fidesta.

            “Tell me a story Fidesta, a happy story about your childhood.”

            “A happy story Madam?  I do not remember any.”

            “You have no happy memories? Then tell me about your life.”  

And she told her tale of four young children, all in primary school, living alone as a family.  Fidesta was in 3^rd grade and Yuda had just begun school.  As the years went by, the family became smaller and smaller.  The oldest brother left to study at an A-level school in Dar.  The older sister decided to marry in order to escape.  Fidesta and Yuda were alone.  Life was very difficult.  They had to rush from school in the afternoon, prepare food, and do their chores to make sure they were inside and the house closed up before dark.  That was when the nighttime visitors began to arrive, men banging on the walls of the house, calling Fidesta to come out.  She and Yuda had a battery powered radio and they turned it up as loud as it would go to block out the voices.  Still they were afraid and could not sleep.  Fidesta could not study.  She developed peptic ulcers and could no longer eat beans.  Someone at school told her to shift to Mkuu; they had a hostel for girls. She received permission; however, now Yuda, was left alone.  Safe from the men but not from the stress, Fidesta worried constantly about her young brother.  Sometimes she would make up stories to leave campus and would sneak home to see how he was faring.  She really did not have much hope for her future.  Survival was her life.

            “Madam, I have remembered a happy story!  Two stories in fact!”

            “Tell me Fidesta.”

The first happy story took place after Fidesta had been sick and had stayed overnight in the hospital.  She needed 15000 shilings to pay her bill.  She had no money so she went to her grandfather and asked him to help.  He told her he had no money to give to her, and when she pleaded with him, he told her to go ask her dead parents.  Maybe they would reach up from their graves and give her some.  She did not know what to do, so she went to her parents’ gravesite and cried.  Feeling defeated, she returned to school.  A few days later, Sister called for her and told her she had visitors.  She could not imagine who it could be.  She went to greet them and met a couple who had been friends of her parents.  They wanted to give her some money, 50000 shilings.  Fidesta was astonished. She thanked them and they went away.  She made up a story and went home.  She paid her bill and then gave Yuda his half of the money.  He was afraid.  He demanded to know where she had gotten such a sum.  She told him, “From God.”

The second happy story occurred fairly recently.  Fidesta needed a place to stay for the school break because the hostel was closing.  She had no idea where to go.  She was sitting on a wall near the church when she saw a “Mzungu” come out.  Her friend told her to go ask the white teacher.  Maybe she would help.  Fidesta was afraid.  She said, no, she could not, but God gave her courage and put words in her mouth.  She went and asked the woman if she could carry her bag and escort her to her home.  You know the ending of that story.  God brought them together.  Now Fidesta has a mother, she and her brother go to good schools, she has hope and a future.  God has blessed her indeed.  That is a happy story.  But the thing that touches my heart the most is that Fidesta has promised God that when she gets a job, she will find two young orphans, a little boy and a girl, and she will give them a new life like God has given her.  Every day, I am amazed at her loving heart and her profound faith.  Fidesta, what a beautiful spirit!