"Smile Ur in Zanzibar"

As much as I love Shirati, I am at my core a city boy and so I have gotten very restless in the small, rural community of Shirati and the outlying villages.  I’m running out of things to peruse at Monday Market, I’m running out of reasons to go to town, and although I will never run out of books to read (Esther has a library that rivals DC’s), my mind needs something new.  The cure?  A mini trip to Zanzibar!  I’ve heard awesome things from CSPS Class 5ers and three of my SHEDmates have planned a trip, so I tag along.  Plus, with the internet capabilities in Mwanza and Zanzibar, I plan to download all the necessities for the database I’m trying to build for Roche Health Center.  I’ve tried downloading it on “Shirati-net” twice only for it to give up on me after about 15%, so this trip is dubbed: business.

After a 5 ½ hour cab and bus ride to Mwanza (the second-largest city in TZ), an 1 ½ hour flight to Dar, and a 20 min puddle jump, we arrive on the famed “spice island”, ZANZIBAR!  And what is the first thing we see?  A nice topiary that reads: “Smile Ur in Zanzibar.”  Damn right!  What a great and positive greeting!  I think for CSPS orientation we should have a topiary that says “Smile Ur at the Clinton School.”  What do you think, Dean?  The three of us left in Shirati joined our friend, Avi, a recent visitor of the Kilimanjaro summit and headed to the beach.  We are to spend two nights on the east coast (yes, my first experience with the Indian Ocean!) in a beach village called Bwejju and then two nights in the capital and main city, Zanzibar Town, more commonly known as Stone Town.  However, before heading to Bwejju, we decide to grab dinner and a drink.  Avi: “So do you guys want to be next to the beach or ON the beach?”  Hmm…when he said “ON the beach,” he was serious.  We enjoyed the evening at a restaurant where I literally had my feet in the sand.  This is a great start to the trip.

Of course, there’s always a catch.  As we’re heading out of Stone Town, we notice that a lot of the restaurants and clubs are dark.  After inquiring, the cabbie laughs and says, “Do you guys not know what today is?” –No... “The first of Ramadan.” –Wow, way to go team! This should make for an interesting trip as Zanzibar is 95% Muslim.  Let the good times roll…

The Kuku Kollektors

To add to the craziness that was this day, the hostel experienced the arrival of what we lovingly called the kuku kollektors (kuku = chicken in Kiswahili).  Ante and I were on our way to meet Josiah and head to the hospital when we noticed about 30 men and boys all standing around the Kawira’s house, and almost every one of them was holding a chicken.  One guy even offered one to Ante.  We ran into the house to ask Dr. Esther what the heck was going on, and she had no idea.  Luckily they didn’t seem angry, actually quite the opposite.  Our guesses were either they were there to celebrate Dr. Esther’s return from 10 days in Cyprus OR they were members of the local poultry federation and needed some meeting space.  We were wrong.  After sending Josiah out to figure out the craziness, he informed us that they were a sort of tax collectors.  Evidently today had been a mandatory work day for all men in Shirati to report and help fix/build a road in town (according to Josiah, the leftovers of the ol’ socialist government).  Josiah had not reported and thus owed a chicken to the town council.  These men had been the ones to work and now were going to the houses of the families without a representative working.  The fine? Either a chicken, 3,000Tsh ($2), or something of similar value and removable (such as a plastic chair).  Really, folks, I can’t make this stuff up.  Well he had just killed his last chicken for lunch and he couldn’t give up one of our chairs that we use every morning when waiting for the Hilux, so he paid them.  You might wonder what they do with the chickens that they’ve collected.  Oh, they hold an auction immediately after all fines are collected and the money raised goes to…  So, Josiah gives them enough money to buy three of the chickens up for auction along with his and Manine’s fines.  Thus is the first strike of the infamous kuku kollektors.

Giving blood in Africa

What began as a totally normal day of not getting the requested data from schools and hut-to-hut surveys quickly turned into the craziest day I’ve yet to have in Africa.  We arrived back from Roche later than usual and as I’m resting a little, I hear crazy commotion coming from the secondary school.  This is where the Chapakazi soccer team practices, so, wondering if they’re playing a game, I call Wiklife who informs me that his school is in a match with a rival secondary school.  Well, I like little more than school sports so I arrange to meet him at the game to watch and enjoy some friendly competition.  On my way to meet him, I run into Dr. Esther who flags me down and asks me what blood type I am.  I tell her that I’m pretty sure I’m B+, and she quickly shows excitement for my answer.  They need to give a blood transfusion to the boy with BL before they can begin chemotherapy.  Loyce (pronounced Lois), one of the nurses whom Ante and I love…she’s hilarious…is compatible, but they need one more person.  After confirming my blood type with my mom I tell her I’m in.  Now, one may say, “Spencer, are you crazy? Giving blood in Africa?!” Well, Dr. Esther, Ante, and Elizabeth (all medical professionals) assured me that it is perfectly safe and that I will see them remove the sterile needle and bag from the plastic packaging.  In between committing to donating blood and the actual blood donation, I run over to the soccer fields to see the game…it is crazy!  There are hundreds of people (students, parents, general fans) standing on the sidelines.  And every time either time gets even close to scoring the girls go crazy and run on to the field, only to quickly retract and run back off, scurrying out of the way so as not to interfere with the players coming at them.  Then I witness a goal by Wiklife’s school, Kuturu, and you would’ve thought Elvis had entered the field, as every female student ran onto the field screaming and jumping celebrating the goal. 

At 6:30pm, I left the game to head to the hospital.  Josiah and Ante are joining Loyce and me for moral support and the experience.  We arrive at the hospital to find a single lab tech in the lab.  His name is Tobias, and you would’ve thought that he hadn’t seen a human being in years.  He was overly excited to see us and incredibly welcoming.  We explained that we needed to take a pint of blood from Loyce and me so that we could give BL boy a transfusion.  He quickly informed us that they have a lot of blood in their fridge, to which Loyce snapped back, “Well, why don’t you just give it to us?!” (This was to be her first time giving blood and I don’t think she was totally stoked about it).  He explained that since he was not a patient of the hospital that he couldn’t provide it for free; however, if we gave two units he would switch out two units; this will work.  So we begin the process; and what a process it was.  Tobias is obviously very good at his job and greatly enjoys it.  He talked us through EVERY. SINGLE. STEP. of his job.  He explained how he was going to prick my finger and remove my blood to test blood type and for HIV (no worries, I’m proudly negative).  He explained to me how he could tell which type my blood was and the purpose of the control (thank you, sixth grade science).  Finally we make it to the phlebotomy room and he sets me up for the donation.  Now everything had been very similar to giving blood in the US minus a few technological luxuries mostly for comfort that we use in the US; that is until the needle.  As usual, he was licking his chops at my nicely large, easily findable veins, when I looked up as he was about to put the needle in, and I immediately gasped: it was HUGE! Huge and metal.  I guess I’m spoiled with the mini butterfly needles or whatever they’re called.  I made it through the insertion, and one great thing about a huge needle is it pumps a lot of blood very quickly.  I loaded up a pint bag in about 3 minutes!  (My fraternity brothers and I used to race to see who could fill up a bag the fastest, and I’m pretty sure the fastest was about 5-6 minutes).  Once the bag was full, needle out, and pressure applied, I rested for a few minutes. 



Then I had the great idea to take a “picture with my pint,” and so got up and went to ask Tobias if I could (here I have found that they’re much less strict about privacy and certain standards that would never fly in the US).  This was a mistake.  I don’t know if I was still recovering from the blood loss, hadn’t had enough water, or simply got up too fast, but within about a minute of being in the main room, I started sweating badly and felt a little woozy.  So, as I have done before for my parents, I announced to everyone that I was about to faint.  Josiah and Ante ran to catch me as my knees collapsed, and poor Ante quickly realized that I was much heavier than I look and handed me off to Tobias.  What did Ante do next? Ran to grab my camera; most would be mad at this…I was happy that I have some great documentation of the ordeal.  I never passed out or lost vision or hearing, but I quickly found myself seated in a chair, Tobias and some random nurse (where she came from I have no clue) holding my legs up above my head and Tobias fanning me with a blue medical folder.  Typical.  I remain more or less in this position for the next 10 minutes on Tobias’ orders (as he laughs the entire time).  Yes, I spent ten minutes lounged in a chair, feet propped up, and a nurse (I soon found out her name was Leonida) fanning me to keep me cool; the only thing missing was a palm leaf, which of course I asked for…she didn’t get the joke. 

Impressive response and recovery care from almost passing out (insert palm leaf)

Meanwhile, Loyce had given her pint and was already walking around worrying about me.  I felt pitiful.  Even with Tobias demanding that she sit and rest, she refused, saying that women can handle blood loss a lot better than men; after all, they’re used to it from childbirth.  So we end the night Loyce and I a pint of blood down, BL boy a pint up and looking much livelier.  All in a day’s work.

As the needle goes in...I swear, it was HUGE!

Encountering a pediatric cancer patient in Tanzania

Burkett’s Lymphoma (BL) is a cancer prevalent in East Africa that is thought to be caused by EBV (Epstein Barr Virus).  It is seen mostly in children who experience tumor growth generally in the face or abdomen.  Dr. Esther and SHED are currently participating in research and treatment funded by the National Cancer Institute through a program called EMBLEM and there is actually a Burkett’s Lymphoma center across the street from the SHED complex.  When arriving in Shirati, I was excited to hear about this and was interested in anything I could do to help (I’m really missing my CARTI Kids, especially since I missed the trip this year…in Chicago of all places-Go Cubbies!).  There was a patient admitted into the center when I got here, but unfortunately soon after my arrival he died from BL.  This past week, however, Ante came across what she believed to be a boy with BL.  He and his father came in to the clinic because the boy’s foot was swollen (like a baseball) and severely infected.  After Ante helped them with the foot, the father mentioned that the boy had a big lump in his lower belly.  The lump felt just like a tumor, so we brought him back to Shirati with us for observation and possible treatment (it blew my mind that the tumor was actually a side-note of the visit and thanks to Ante, they were able to identify another very dangerous complication for this boy).  Turns out he does have BL and after an ultrasound of his abdomen, we know that the tumor is very big and wrapped around his spleen.  This is a complicated situation because before the tumor can be treated with chemotherapy, the infection in the foot must be controlled.  Over the past week, we’ve been soaking the foot, he’s been heavily medicated with antibiotics, and the swelling and infection are slowly going away.  The boy has been a champ, especially considering that a week ago his life was totally normal (besides of course the massive, painful foot that he had) and now he’s a young teenager having to battle cancer, the effects of chemo, and a weakened body.  I will keep updated on his progress.

For more information regarding BL and the EMBLEM study, visit the SHED Foundation at www.shedfoundation.org

A different culture of record keeping

Today, I am supposed to be picking up data from the schools regarding attendance records and national exam scores for the past 6 years (the three years before the start of the Uji project and the three years since).  This proves to be much harder than expected.  Upon my initial visit I discussed with them some of the records that would be available for me and after some extra thought, I outlined in a later phone conversation the types of data that I would need (through a translator, of course).  This was almost all lost in translation.  The first school had a packet ready for me, produced by the district education office outlining the scores and rank of the school for 2008…only 2008.  Turns out they were numero uno that year in the district but were not for 2009 and 2010, so I have a feeling that they only wanted me to see that one year.  The next school’s product is even more pitiful, only giving me a sheet of paper with the number of students who took the exam.  Although each of these documents is helpful and shows good trends for the evaluation, it’s not enough.  Thanks to my faithful Rosie, we’re able to explain again everything that we need and confirm with them that they can provide it.  They explain to me, however, that much of it will have to come from the district office, as they don’t keep a lot of those records on file.  I have quickly realized how different the systems of reporting are here.  Turns out, even though all students take national exams, the only schools that receive their results in paper form are the top ten schools in each district.  The others are informed (I guess by phone?) and that’s it.  Also, they do not keep student-by-student attendance records, only total amount and only calculate annual averages.  In no way do I intent to bash this system because they do the best they can with the resources and lack of technology that they have.  But I have learned a lot about the flexibility I must maintain in conducting an evaluation here, and it’s good to recognize these road blocks in trying to develop practices that will help VLOP monitor the Uji project.  My next step is pursuing if there’s any possibility of working directly with the district office…we’ll see how that goes.

The not-so-sweet sounds of Shirati in the morning

Never growing up in the country, I got my share of farm animals and early wake-up calls only at Boy Scout camp.  To make up for this lack of exposure, I am living in Shirati, Tanzania, where there’s pretty much no such thing as sleeping past 7:30.  On the rare occasion that you’re in a dead sleep, you may make it to 8 am.  This has been an interesting transition, as the only sound I’m used to waking me up in the morning is one of our five dogs barking or my mom screaming at them to be quiet and not wake me up.  Shirati, I believe is more active and bustling in between 5 and 8 in the morning than 5 and 8 in the evening.  First call of the morning is the Bunda bus: 5am, leaving for Bunda (about 3 hours away) but rather than quietly leave Shirati, it announces its departure with honking and some sort of music that sounds like those god-awful ringtones that the original Nokias had.  It drives on the road that passes right in front of my hostel, and there have been mornings in which Fernando and I thought it was coming through the window.  Next, comes the rooster: 6-6:30am, not only making his presence known but multiple times, as if I had been able to sleep through the first 4 announcements.  Then, the children: just before 7am, they all start arriving at school and talk and scream as if they’re just getting back from summer vacation…every day.  Our hostel is neatly positioned between Mkoma Primary School (I could literally spit onto their playground) and Kuturu Secondary School (outside of which the political party blasts propaganda, evidently recruiting future supporters).  Finally, the gong: 7am, school is beginning and a noise resonates from either school that sounds like every Tibetan monk is in unison banging their peaceful gongs.  I’m interested to attend school with Wiklife so I can witness what the damn thing actually is.  Once the “bell” has been rung, there’s no going back (to sleep) because then begin the morning announcements for each school, the dogs barking, cows are awake thanks to the rooster, and the whole barn is welcoming the morning; and so, I do too.  Luckily, my housemate goes to bed no later than 9pm, so I have no excuse to stay up late.  Thus, I am paid back for my quiet, peaceful childhood of sleeping in the city.

The not-so-sweet sounds of Shirati in the morning

Never growing up in the country, I got my share of farm animals and early wake-up calls only at Boy Scout camp.  To make up for this lack of exposure, I am living in Shirati, Tanzania, where there’s pretty much no such thing as sleeping past 7:30.  On the rare occasion that you’re in a dead sleep, you may make it to 8 am.  This has been an interesting transition, as the only sound I’m used to waking me up in the morning is one of our five dogs barking or my mom screaming at them to be quiet and not wake me up.  Shirati, I believe is more active and bustling in between 5 and 8 in the morning than 5 and 8 in the evening.  First call of the morning is the Bunda bus: 5am, leaving for Bunda (about 3 hours away) but rather than quietly leave Shirati, it announces its departure with honking and some sort of music that sounds like those god-awful ringtones that the original Nokias had.  It drives on the road that passes right in front of my hostel, and there have been mornings in which Fernando and I thought it was coming through the window.  Next, comes the rooster: 6-6:30am, not only making his presence known but multiple times, as if I had been able to sleep through the first 4 announcements.  Then, the children: just before 7am, they all start arriving at school and talk and scream as if they’re just getting back from summer vacation…every day.  Our hostel is neatly positioned between Mkoma Primary School (I could literally spit onto their playground) and Kuturu Secondary School (outside of which the political party blasts propaganda, evidently recruiting future supporters).  Finally, the gong: 7am, school is beginning and a noise resonates from either school that sounds like every Tibetan monk is in unison banging their peaceful gongs.  I’m interested to attend school with Wiklife so I can witness what the damn thing actually is.  Once the “bell” has been rung, there’s no going back (to sleep) because then begin the morning announcements for each school, the dogs barking, cows are awake thanks to the rooster, and the whole barn is welcoming the morning; and so, I do too.  Luckily, my housemate goes to bed no later than 9pm, so I have no excuse to stay up late.  Thus, I am paid back for my quiet, peaceful childhood of sleeping in the city.

Let the surveys begin!

Yesterday, I began my hut-to-hut surveys on usage and satisfaction with the Roche Health Center and Uji Project.  The first day was slow to begin.  After an issue finding transportation, a very bumpy ride in a corolla station wagon that should never traverse those roads, and a punctured tire outside Roche, we finally made it to Migeko, the subvillage I’ll be interviewing first. One of the nice things about the punctured tire is it happened in front of the home of a nice couple, Joyce and Helon Amolo.  Helon was a Mennonite minister for years and now at the ripe age of 80, he and his wife now enjoy a quiet but comfortable life in the country.  His wife was wonderful.  She offered me their choo (toilet) and demanded I eat some uji because I looked thin (sounds like back home).  Her uji looked very different from that at the schools, so I was hesitant – a reddish, brown color.  It was quickly explained to be made out of sorghum and millet rather than corn or flour.  It was great, much sweeter than the school uji!  I drank it out of a bowl made from a dried gourd (Mom would have loved the bowl!)

Melda and her children who live in Migeko subvillage.

The surveys went well, although slow, as we were led by the subvillage chairman, Otieno (Agnes’, my committee member, husband) and Paul, chairman of the education committee.  They took us all over the subvillage, passing many homes.  When I explained that we needed to just pick a spot and proceed hut-to-hut rather than pick and choose homes, they told me that if we only did one area, villagers on the other side of Migeko would be jealous.  This could be a problem.  Three and a half hours later, we finish our fifth survey, and as it is already late, I figure we’re walking back to the car.  Nope, Otieno takes us to his home to interview his wife (Agnes – this survey will probably have to be thrown out due to bias).  After a long interview, only extended by the late, late discovery of a second wife, he invites us into his home to eat.  It’s so late, but this hospitality is necessary in their culture and of course, I never turn down food (very similar to the Southern hospitality, I feel right at home).  Agnes brings out a bowl with ng’ombe (beef) and broth and then two plates of what looks like bread.  I grab it and realize that it is very soft, not like bread, and realize I’m wrong; it’s ugali. YES!!! (Things to do in TZ: try ugali. Check! My TZ/African experience is complete) Killian explains to me that ugali to Tanzanians is like the potato to the British, bread to the French, pasta to Italians, and rice to Asians.  He instructs me to grab a piece, roll and mold it in my hand into a bowl, stick my thumb in the middle to make an “ugali bowl” and then dip in the broth.  It is SO GOOD!  Although it has the consistency of cookie dough and so is very chewy, it has a soothing feel to the pallet, yet is a little tough to swallow.  Whereas I miss pizza, fried food, and tortilla chips, Tanzanians miss ugali when they are away. 

My first meal of ugali na nyama (lamb meat) with Paul-VLOP committee member, Otieno-Migeko subvillage chairman, and Killian-my faithful translator (left to right)

The second day of surveys goes even slower with us only making it to seven homes in four hours.  It turns out Migeko is the largest subvillage and so the homes are much more spread out.  It’s interesting dealing with a translator because half the time, I wonder what all he is saying to the family.  It takes about three times as long for him to ask “Have you been to Roche Health Center in the past three months?”  But Killian is a great companion and knows his languages well!  After survey #7 (which went half as long as all the others because Killian was tired and ready to stop) Nyamusi picked us up, only for us to be ushered to the town center to meet with Otieno.  Again, we were ushered to a meal with Otieno and Paul of ugali and meat.  Today, though, the meat was chicken, and it was wonderful!  There was a lot of meat, much different from the chicken we had in Shirati, and flavor was nice and salty.  They made sure to give me the wing with the most meat, but then followed it up with another piece of….I’m still deciding whether it was the chicken liver or testicles.  Either way, I was pleasantly surprised.  It was very different from normal chicken meat but tasty.  I hope that this is a tradition present in all subvillages…I could get used to this wonderful food.  It’s also a great time to get to know the leaders better and talk about the project, albeit through a translator.

Update on William John and nursing school graduation

You may remember William John from my experience at the Mennonite Church about three weeks ago.  It’s okay if you don’t; I didn’t.  Or at least I didn’t recognize him. 

I went to the Zappa Kindergarten, where oddly enough they do photocopying, to copy my survey.  Yes, it is finally printed and ready to go!  While there, one of the others waiting starts talking to me, and asks if I remember him.  Oh crap!  This is one of my most feared questions.  I have met so many people in this town and the villages and have done a good job at remembering my committee members’ and village chairmen’s names, but there are just too many to remember everyone.  My answer? “Of course! How’s everything going?” Phew, crisis briefly avoided.  We discuss my project, Roche and the health center, as well as his nursing school regimen, and he mentions religion and Jesus a few times (all the while I’m trying to figure out how I know him and more importantly his name).  His knowledge about RHC doesn’t narrow too much down, but nursing school does and the religious references even more so.  Finally, I ask him, “now, remind me your first name again?” (This is an okay question because many here go by their last name) His answer: “William.”  Ding, ding, ding!  Light bulb has gone off!  I’m sitting next to William John, the kind soul that translated and explained the Mennonite Church service and fundraiser to James and me.  It was great.  I knew exactly who he was now, and he had no clue that anything was ever wrong.  He went on talking for another HOUR (it evidently takes forever to make 50 copies of a 13 page survey – that’s 650 pages), explaining his educational background, how he’s graduating in three weeks, and that he is printing off his final project report.  Their final project involves picking a family in a village, observing them, noting all health problems, and then assessing the causes and cures for these problems.  They must then educate the family on how they can treat and prevent these problems in the future.  It’s a very cool application of their learning.  Nursing school here has just as much of a focus on counseling and education as the actual medical knowledge, which is a nice addition.  I then make the mistake of asking where he did his project.  He misunderstood and thought I asked where his project paper was.  This prompts him to get his paper and page by page, word by word, read me his report.  AAAHH!  This is including title page, table of contents, acknowledgements, abbreviation pages, everything! Luckily, by page 12, my copying is done and so we must end this wonderful moment.  It was good to see him, and I have now seared into my head what he looks like.  Maybe, I’ll get to witness a nursing school graduation here…we will see.

Movie night with the mzungus

The past two nights, Fernando and I have watched movies with our buddies, Emmanuel and Wiklife (the coaches of the soccer team).  We’ve been setting this movie night up ever since I got here, but something always falls through.  So we finally pick Monday night, only for the power to be out.  We push through anyway.  Wiklife is big into war movies, but the closest things I have to all-out war movies are Last King of Scotland and A Few Good Men.  The latter I think is a little too much talking, and although the former is a little intense and not a lot of fighting, it’s about Idi Amin and Uganda, something close and relative, that they know a lot about.  I’m not sure whether they enjoyed it as a whole, but I could tell that they liked some parts and were following everything easily. 

The next day, by the grace of God, Elizabeth found The Lion King in Esther’s bookshelf!  As cliché as it is, we have been wanting to watch it ever since we got here.  And so, movie night #2.  We invite Wiklife and Emmanuel again, and this time Emmanuel’s brother, Joseph, joined.  It was glorious, and although I wasn’t allowed to sing along, I enjoyed every moment of it.  I’m not really sure what they thought about it since Joseph fell asleep and the other two were silent the whole time (probably thought, “Why are we watching a cartoon of animals from the Serengeti talking?”).  Oh well, I think it’s interesting for them to see what many Americans envision when they think “Africa.”

Killian Killing a King Kobra

My African experience is almost complete.  I have seen a king cobra and subsequently its death (thank goodness!).  We were on our way to Roche for clinic and my school visits, the Hilux is packed, and so Sam, Harry (Rosie’s husband and my driver/translator for the day), Fernando, Marta (a Dutch med student tagging along), and I are all in the truck bed, enjoying the breeze.  All of a sudden a HUGE black snake crawls into the road and before we can do anything we run over it.  Nyamusi immediately slams on the brakes and backs up.  In front of us is a snake, easily five to six feet long and about two to three inches in diameter.  Before we know it, Killian and Nyamusi are picking up massive rocks, throwing them at the snake.  The snake is in the middle of the road – its middle section was squished by a tire and so stuck to the ground – getting beaten with big rocks. It is about a minute in when it raises up about a foot and splays its cobra crown.  Oh s***!  This is when Harry and a couple of villagers join in on the stoning of the snake.  Within another minute, the cobra is dead, only its tail twitching, and Killian is holding it swinging it around.  I will remind all that in no way am I embarrassed that at this point I am still frozen in place in the truck bed, only having moved to grab my camera.  Once Killian put the snake back down, a woman from the hut right off the road ran up to it and through one last rock on the head, obviously thinking, “Take that, damn cobra!”  We soon learned that the snake had been terrorizing the locals for months and so it was a big public service (Killian should receive an honorary degree from CSPS) to kill the snake.  We also found out that the cobra was not only a king cobra, but a spitting cobra! Again, it was intelligence not fear that kept me in that truck bed.  Let’s hope that this is my only experience with a snake while in TZ.

Finally visiting the schools!

My first taste of the porridge served at primary schools in Roche...tastes like cream of wheat!

So after four weeks of waiting, I finally get to visit the primary schools that host the uji project!  The first three weeks I was here, they were on summer holiday, and last week they were busy getting students back into school mode.  So here I am, spending the day meeting with administrators at Migeko, Ratia, and Roche primary schools, the three msingi of Roche village.  Quick background on the project: in 2008, VLOP began supplying these schools with flour and sugar to make uji, the previously mentioned porridge, to be served for lunch.  The cooks are to be volunteers from the community, so that there is no added cost to the school or students.  Public schools in TZ do not provide lunch to students and so they must walk home for lunch every day.  Some of the distances are so far that many never return for afternoon session; others stay at school with nothing to eat.  The idea is to provide students with a meal to keep them attentive so they can learn throughout the day but also keep them at school for the entire day.  My task for the schools is to develop a monitoring system so that VLOP can keep track of important outcomes and indicators of success/failure with the project.  I’m also evaluating the current issues and needs of the program at each school.  I begin at Ratia PS, then Roche PS, and end at Migeko PS.  At Roche Primary, we arrived as the Standard 2 (second grade) students were taking their uji – they don’t begin school until 11, so they take their uji later than the rest of the school.  I asked if there was enough for me to try the uji just so I could relate to them and the project.  Cecilia, the Standard 2 teacher, says “of course!” and is surprised but excited that I would be willing to eat it.  And….it’s really good!  It’s basically cream of wheat in the US (Things to do in TZ: try uji. Check!  Now I just have to get to ugali).  The teachers were so welcoming and helpful at all three schools, and I greatly look forward to spending the next month working with them.  I didn’t get any time with the kids, but that will come next week.  They need to be focusing on their school work.

The students of Roche Primary School getting their cup of uji for the morning break

Proving that mzungus CAN dance

This afternoon, Fernando’s football team threw a party for his departure.  The party was enhanced by the fact that they won a big game yesterday (against an older, supposedly more skilled team also from Kabwana) with a score of 3-1 (well, really 4-1, but evidently arguing with the ref can get a goal reversed…I question whether some money was exchanged).  The party was held at the home of Joel, an 8 y.o. badass who is the lead scorer for the team and is easily smaller than everyone else who plays with or against.  His mother owns a shop in town (where they sell the great sambusa!) and so they have a very nice home: a living room that can seat comfortably 15 or so people, 25 if they’re small (like the team is); a satellite for TV (one of the signs of wealth here), a separate hut for cooking; and very nice decorations.  The party included the numbering of the new jerseys that they received thanks to their donor, Mr. Fernando, the serving and enjoying of maraga na wali (YES!), some Luo dancing by none other than Benatus and Joel’s little brother, and then a cup was sent around for everyone to donate towards their buying of cleats for the whole team.  In the end we raised $15,000Tsh in total; not there yet, but every little bit counts.  Finally, there were speeches by Joel’s mother welcoming us to her home and thanking us for coming; Wiklife, who spoke for the team; a few other teammates; and Fernando.  It was a wonderful party, and I was honored to be included.  I look forward to the next five weeks of hanging out with my TZ friends.  Upon the conclusion of the party, we were all outside hanging out, when Benatus started dancing again.  I couldn’t help but jump in on the action.  Luo dancing is basically “walking it out” done solely on your toes and a little lower than the American version.  Utter shock.  They all went crazy, screaming in Luo, probably saying, “WHAT?! Mzungu can dance?!”  Yes, Mzungu can dance.  I think I earned a little respect there on that patch of dirt.

Culinary Lessons of Tanzania (F.A. Post IV)

When traveling to a foreign land, one of the concerns, excitement mixed with fear, is the food availability and culinary selection of where one is going.  This is an even bigger concern for Americans, as we are used to ungodly quantities of whatever we’re eating, ease of acquisition by simply driving up to a fast food restaurant, ordering, grabbing a box from a window, and driving off, and a selection about as vast as the Grand Canyon.  None of that describes Shirati, Tanzania; and, as I will pretty much eat anything except for chocolate, mayonnaise, and muster, I have been enveloped in the food culture here.  So, to my parents, do not worry, I am not starving or losing a ton of weight; actually, it’s been quite the opposite. 

Much of the diet is based on what can be farmed and raised by the family: corn, millet, cassava, cow, goat, sheep, fish, and chicken(/egg), all of which are combined to make the different meals.  Those are the foundation of the NW TZ diet.  Those who are fortunate add rice and beans (I wish I had my Lizano veggie sauce from Costa Rica with me), a wide array of fruits dominated by the banana, pineapple, and mango, potato, and peppers.  Other than that, it’s pretty simple.  The two basic meals are ugali and uji, the second of which you may recognize from my project with VLOP.  Whereas ugali is the bread of the diet, uji is porridge; yet they have the same ingredients, just cooked differently: one baked over the fire, the other cooked with water.   Ugali is probably THE quintessential base of the Tanzanian diet, and I have yet to get to try it or the uji…not cool.     

We have enjoyed much of the above food: marage na wali (red beans and rice); goat/beef/lamb with rice and cabbage; chapatti, the Tanzanian version of a tortilla, served with anything; flat pancakes; mondazi (fried dough); lots of egg for breakfast; fish and chips (French fries), which is the “pub/restaurant food” here; goat/beef/lamb/fish stew; and others.  One thing I can definitely say about SHED is they provide a good variety of local TZ cuisine, meals with a little American flavor, and meals considered luxury to anyone.  To tell you all the culinary novelties that I have enjoyed would be ridiculous and inefficient.  I have learned, though, of one thing that I DO NOT like:

This morning we had a great breakfast of pancakes, jelly, sugar, and tea.  The pancakes are by far my favorite breakfast and are not like American pancakes, as I don’t think they use baking powder here.  They are light, thin, and easy to eat A LOT OF.  You could put a tall stack to shame; try three or four tall stacks.  After breakfast, though, Robert brought out a container of fruit.  Inside was an orange melon-looking fruit sliced into crescent shapes…cantaloupe?!  I jumped up so pumped about having cantaloupe and quickly cut off a piece and popped it in my mouth.  As the bite was going in my mouth, I noticed there was a small, thin skin on the fruit (uh oh, cantaloupe has rind, not skin).  I then bit down onto it, and the taste that came only secured my disappointment that this was not cantaloupe.  Not only was it not cantaloupe, but it was one of the worst tastes that I had ever had come from a fruit.  It only stayed in my mouth for a few seconds, but in that time, my taste buds were totally horrified, my tongue confused with whether it was touching a fruit or the sweaty armpit of a hairy man who has just run a half-marathon in the desert.  Yes, that is exactly what it tasted like.  So, from now on, please, oh please, do not EVER let me eat PAPAYA!

A gathering of leaders....eventually

Today, I finally am able to get a meeting with the Roche village council, also including the committees.  The day begins a little rough as Rosie must work at RHC with it being a man short, but it works out well as I begin my work with Killian, the famous translator of SHED.  Used and loved by all, I’m excited to get a full day with Killian.  The Hilux drops us off at the village office (where the meeting was supposed to be held), but within minutes we realize that beside the two of us and Ongoro, one of the VLOP health committee members, no one is around (it’s 10:15 and the meeting was “supposed” to begin at 9).  The village executive secretary shows up around 10:30 and informs us that it is at RHC, not the office.  So we begin the hike to RHC.  Although it was over an hour in the blazing sun, it was a great trek through the farms and fields of cassava, corn, and grass throughout Roche’s subvillages Darajani and Nyataya.  I was shown the bore hole to provide water for the village (it provides enough water for about one subvillage) built by ESA, a Swedish NGO that used to do a lot of work in TZ but became frustrated with the response (or lack thereof) they were receiving.  As Killian put it, Tanzanians are hard-headed and don’t like change once it’s given to them.  I also was shown the foundation for the secondary school that was to be built on the now-VLOP property that will be used for expansion of RHC.  Evidently the school had started construction when a wealthy man from Ratia (subvillage east of the property in Nyataya) paid for the school to be moved and built closer to him.  Luckily for VLOP, the school was moved and so the land was given for RHC’s construction.

Around noon, the meeting finally gets underway (remember, African Standard Time, which actually goes well with my sometimes unpunctuality in the US) in the living room of a home just behind the health center.  There are about twenty-five villagers present including the village chairman and executive secretary, Killian, and me.  Those present were committee members or chairmen from all five subvillages representing health, education, and water interests, a meeting of the village minds, if you will.  The meeting is begun just as any city council, school board, or official meeting in the US, with the typical formalities, welcomes, and quick news.  I’m introduced and thanked for my presence and future work.  As the meeting is handed over to me, I take the opportunity to introduce myself in Swahili (a repeat of my first meeting with the chairman), but as I haven’t practiced it in a week, it’s a little rough, and most smile or laugh at me – I think more in a cute, pitying, but appreciative way.  The meeting in my mind went very well, as I received a lot of input, opinion, and stories from many of the present leaders.  One major cultural aspect that I noticed and appreciated was that when someone spoke to give me their thoughts (whether positive or negative), they began by expressing how thankful they were that VLOP and SHED had helped them build the health center and provide lunch to their children and how important the projects have been to the community…everyone.  The comments are also very redundant, but it appears to me that the purpose of this is not to be redundant as much as reinforcing.  It seems they believe that by “seconding” and repeating what someone has previously said, they are showing how true and important the point is.  I really respect this, especially from an evaluative perspective in that it’s always good for showing that one person’s comment is (or is not) the opinion of the whole.  After three hours of discussion, questions, justifications, answers, and logistics, Jackson, the village chairman, ends the meeting by thanking me for my future work, my passion, and informs me that upon my departure in six weeks, we must reconvene so that they can show their happiness in giving to me (what, I do not know) as I am giving to them…very cool!  Huts of Roche, here I come!

Hitting the ground running

This entire week I’ve spent finalizing my survey and getting everything ready to begin hut-to-hut and villager interviews.  Monday morning, I woke up bright and early and began inputting patient information and data regarding treatments, diagnoses, and other patient-specific activities of the Roche Health Center.  It’s very interesting how high the number of patients were for the first couple weeks of the center being open.  It was made quite obvious how great the need for a health center in this area was and the anticipation of the opening of RHC.  Although there is little to no follow-up on most patients, the fact that many have not had to come back for further treatment hopefully is a good sign that the two-day clinic is helping residents receive quality health care.  Another observation is that the patients are not just coming from Roche, but from neighboring and far off villages in TZ and Kenya (remember RHC is only about a 20 minute walk from the border).  Finally, it seems to me that there is some valuable information in these records but compiling it from paper records is tedious (as I have found out over the past two weeks), and so I wonder the benefit of computerizing the records into a database that Daniel (the Nurse Assistant who lives at Roche) could keep up with and once a month transfer to VLOP and SHED’s hands for monitoring and research purposes.  After talking with Dr. Esther and hearing her enthusiasm, I’m interested in pursuing the possibility further.   Evidently, no hospital, clinic, or dispensary in the entire country keeps computerized records, and as district and government officials ask for paper records, the priority is for written documents.  However, the possibility of RHC being the pioneer in moving TZ health care to a more digital phase would be so cool!  We’ll see how this works out. 

I spent much of midweek formatting my survey (which takes a much longer time than one would hope), and tweaking, deleting and adding questions and sections.  I received some helpful guidance from Rosie and Dr. Esther, who informed/reminded me of things that I just simply would not know or consider because of cultural differences.  I’m excited to receive further input from the committees, as I’m sure I am missing a few things, but feel that they survey is pretty comprehensive in evaluating satisfaction with RHC and the uji project.  This time next week, I’ll be in the field putting it to work!

On the lighter side of things, I saw my first rock hyrax on Thursday evening while on a run towards the lake.  Kyraxes are rabbit-sized rodents that can only be found on or closely around the large rocks that are scattered around the countryside of Shirati, most well-known for being on Eboke, the “mountain” behind Shirati.  They’re cool little creatures, and where we were we find multiple hyrax hanging out on top of the rocks staring at the sunset…obviously a romantic spot for the male  hyrax to bring a hot date.

Crazy bus trip to the border II

Our bus ride to TZ began MUCH better than the last; keyword: began.  We knew better this time and arrived at 9 (rather than 6), and we left promptly at 9:45am. Thus ends the normalcy.  I must confess that we went against one of Mama Shamim’s rules of busing in E. Africa and had to sit in the back of the bus; we now understand why it is a rule.  Thus begins my list of things that I will never do again after the bus ride.  First, I will never ride in the back of a bus in East Africa.  There are no such things as “shocks” on the bus that we’re on and so we feel every single bump on the road, especially the speed bumps.  Secondly, I will never complain about speed bumps in Little Rock, Arkansas, or anywhere else for that matter, because those in EA put all others to shame; I’m talking mini mountains.  The only two images that come close to the feeling of being in the back are: infant Spencer in the Johnny Jumper bouncing up and down, up and down; and when cartoon characters are shot out of cannons and such, flying across a road or ground bouncing as they come to a stop, only there was no suspension pulling me back up and the ground was not a cartoon but a hard, uncomfortable seat killing my butt.  Finally, I will never think twice about bringing an animal in transit with me.  The lady on the back row (directly behind us and next to my right side) brought a chicken with her on the bus; yes, a live chicken.  And by damn, if any animal behaves as well as that chicken did for six hours (minus the first 2 minutes of freaking out before it was put on the floor), it’s allowed to travel with me.  It was so well behaved that at one point, everyone started screaming, “where’s the chicken?! Where’s the chicken?!”  What?!?! You’ve lost the damn chicken, unbelievable.  No worries, though, after five minutes of searching it was found against the back wall sleeping. 

Anyways, I unfortunately conclude this post on a sad note.  The bus was less than 10 minutes from the border, actually in Isebania’s jurisdiction when all of a sudden the bus driver SLAMS on the breaks, swerving, as our bus quickly leans to the right, about to tip over into the ditch on the side of the road; I’m talking about two wheels off the ground tipping.  Luckily, most of us are on the left side and it comes back to earth and comes to a stop.  Terrified we gather ourselves and start figuring out what happened.  We quickly realize things are bad.  There’s a piki in the ditch on its side and right behind it a man on his back screaming, one leg going the wrong direction, people are running from all directions to the front of the bus screaming, and we soon realize that they are running to a man lying dead in front of our bus.  The best we can gather is that the man had stumbled out into the street, was hit by the piki, both of which were hit by our bus.  It’s an odd feeling being on something that kills a man.  For the past 5 ½ hours, we had been bitching about how fast the driver was taking the bumps, and yet, his speed in the end possibly played a role in a man’s death.  Part of me wonders if things would have changed if one of us had said something to the driver, but especially coming from a mzungu, I’m sure he would’ve changed little.  We actually had multiple people back in Shirati act like it was no big deal, for deaths along the ride happen like that all the time.  Needless to say, shaken up and kinda out of it, we finally make it back to Shirati and SHED, and I find myself thinking, “thank god, home sweet home.”

A Rough Day in Africa

At 4:00 am, we reluctantly hop in our cab for the CPT airport.  It’s a good thing that I was wide awake because our cab driver was not…he was either drunk or exhausted because about every three minutes he would swerve, every car on the highway was flying by us, and I’m pretty sure half the times I looked at him his eyes were closed.  Luckily we made it, and six hours later we’re flying out of Jo-burg, sadly saying goodbye to South Africa, proudly holding our touristy vuvuzelas, and ready to head back to “real” Africa.  We land in Nairobi at 2:45pm and although we proceed quickly to customs, 45 minutes later, I’m finally getting my passport stamped.  Remember when I spoke so highly of my experience with Kenyan customs and the officer who helped me and commented on my smile? Yeah, I change my mind.  Not only did the customs officer invalidate our current visas that are supposed to be good, but he made me go back and fill out the visa app form again, AFTER he let Fernando through without it.  He also would not let me buy a single-entry for 90 days and made me buy a transit visa that only lasts 2 (that's going to help).  He claims that Nairobi does not sell multiple entry visas (I'm not quite sure why the largest city and capital doesn't provide them).  He must have felt me killing him with my eyes. Bad experience #1.  We finally get our bags (minus my ski jacket that was evidently taken out of my bag during our wonderful customs experience. Bad experience #2.) and find Mama Shamim, who had been waiting with the cab driver for an hour and a half (why they got there so early, we don’t know, but this would come back to haunt us later with a $50 cab tab). In an attempt to get some souvenirs, Mama Shamim takes us to the Masai market in downtown Nairobi.  We set foot on the grounds and within ten seconds, we each have 2-3 guys trying to help us shop, bringing us to their stands and harassing us for business.  Within two minutes of being there, we each had about 5 guys and by the five minute mark, we’re fed up and leave. Bad experience #3.  It’s pretty sad because for all their work to get business, they got NONE.  And we will not be back.  We then proceed to the grocery store to stock up on snacks for the bus ride back to Shirati.  After having a guy cut right in front of us in the line, I pay and thank the bagger for my groceries by saying Asante (thank you in Kiswahili); he proceeds to inform us that “on this side of town [they] know how to speak English, so I should too.” Wow, talk about some friendly people.  Bad experience #4.  Luckily we eventually made it back to Mama Shamim’s and stayed inside enjoying time with Mercy, Mama, Natasha, and Carolina, safe from any more bad experiences.  (I apologize for the negative comments, but this was my one horrible, angry, negative day of the trip.  Great things are to come, I’m sure.)

Heaven for a Self-Proclaimed Fat Ass (F.A. Post for Week 3)

Ok, so you may have noticed that none of my previous South Africa posts (beside short mentions) have featured my culinary vacation.  This is because I knew that it would take an entire post.  The moment we landed in South Africa, I was in heaven.  The fast food restaurants in the mall, I mean airport, are not like ours back home; you don’t feel nasty and greasy afterwards.  Whether Anat, the Mediterranean spot that has great lamb schwarma with a topping bar or KFC big boxes that have great chicken (yes, it really is GREAT, much better than in the US, and trust me, coming from a Popeye’s faithful, this means a lot), the fast food was impressive and diverse.

On a more refined note, we ate our way through the top restaurants in Cape Town and the surrounding areas.  Each day, we chose one meal to splurge on and enjoy the best of South African cuisine. I enjoyed:

-Lamb breddie (basically a pot roast)

-Pickled fish (that was surprisingly amazing)

-Putu and chakalaka (awesome name, nothing impressive, but is couscous with spicy baked beans)

-Snoek and hake cakes (local fish: snoek is rarely served at restaurants for some reason, but has a wonderful, smoky taste; hake is the typical fish beer-battered and served w/ chips)

-New Zealand mussels (in an amazing garlic cream sauce that went great with garlic toast…no one would come near me due to my pungent but tasty breath)

-Grilled Yellowtail (a little dry but salty, good flavor)

and the grand finale…a South African game kebab featuring Kudu, Springbok, Impala, and Wildebeest (all of which tasted much like a beef filet, but each with a slight variation; as they are game, they were much leaner, but still had great flavor; I think I’d have to say the Kudu was my favorite)

Finally, I must point out that Molly, Fernando, and I are the proud first customers of Roberto’s, a wonderful restaurant on Long Street, whose chef is of Portuguese descent and although it is not strictly Portuguese food, some of the sauces and starters have a cultural twist to them.  Not surprisingly, we were totally into being the first customers, and Roberto himself jumped on the bandwagon, taking pictures of our meals, “the first plates ever served.”  We even took a picture with Roberto and are supposed to be put on the “wall of fame” and posted on his culinary blog.  So, if any of you reading this live in Cape Town or will be visiting in the near (or distant) future, please take a walk up Long Street and visit our good friend Roberto for a wonderful meal (or two or three)…and remember to look for our picture!

Spending time with a Legend

It’s not every day that you find yourself in the company of a Nobel Peace Prize winner and worldwide legend.  The wonderful people at the Desmond Tutu Peace Centre have this honor every day.  I have gone back and forth on whether to post about this, but in reflection, I am so impressed by Archbishop Tutu’s love for life and people, genuine happiness, and jovial nature, I had to express my honor to spend time with him.  Thanks to some wonderful people, we had the honor of having tea with the Archbishop on Wednesday and attending a prayer service lead by the Archbishop on Friday morning.  When arriving for the tea, I must admit I felt awkward, that I was intruding on an office ritual, but within seconds of being there, not only the staff but the Archbishop made me feel silly for worrying.  Joined by staff, family, and three Dutch reporters, we all laughed, listened, and enjoyed the humor, insight, and intellect of the Archbishop.  At one point he even interrupted himself mid-sentence to ask one of the media crewman if he had had tea yet and why he wasn’t joining us, simply desiring more warmth and humanity around him.

Our second experience, a small prayer service at the well-known St. George’s Anglican Cathedral, began early and cold, but we soon were warmed by the love and hope in the small chapel of St. George’s.  Aside from the service taken from the prayer book, the Archbishop spoke for humanity and peace, an enlightening and uplifting service.  He even paused the service to welcome all visitors and had each of us stand, introduce ourselves and our homes, and appeared genuinely honored that we had come.  We left, each receiving the blessing of the Archbishop, with a smile on our face and a lighter heart.  Thank you, Archbishop Tutu, for your wisdom, your actions, your example, and your hospitality.

A Table with a View

Our final day in Cape Town was the day that in a way we had been waiting for since we first laid eyes on the city.  Our first day, we were walking to breakfast, when Fernando suddenly demanded that I turn around.  Behind us, towering over the city was Table Mountain, a 4000-or-so-foot mountain.  Home to a diverse ecosystem of beautiful flora and unique fauna and a popular attraction for climbing enthusiasts, we knew we had to go.  After two cloudy days (which are described as “the tablecloth being set”) the plan was set for a final day climb.  It did not disappoint.  We began our walk from St. George’s Cathedral (see later post) at 8am and decided to walk all the way TO the mountain.  About an hour and a half and a good 2-3 miles in, we were so close but already tired of the steep and winding hills, so we cheated and grabbed a mutate the rest of the way.  Once at the bottom, we began our ascent up the Platteklip trail (a shorter, but steep climb up the mountain).  It took us an hour and 45 minutes (what is estimated to be 2-2 ½) to wind our way up the slope of the front face of the mountain, all the while looking out onto the city and harbor, a beautiful, but reverse view of our discovery of Table Mountain.  Once on top, the view was better than any I’ve ever seen in the world.  To the north, we could see miles away, past Blouberg into the far reaches of the suburbs; and to the south, we were able to point out all the places we had been to the previous day, looking out past Cape Point to the great ocean…and somewhere out there, Antarctica.  After about a hundred pictures and even more sighs and moans at the beauty, we grabbed lunch (again with the best lunch view I can think of, looking onto Sea Point and the turquoise ocean) and took the cable car down, an impressive machine, that holds about 20 people with a floor that spins 360 degrees during the five minute descent from the mountain.  Interestingly enough, the original cable car was built in 1922 and operated until recently (when it was replaced with a VISA-sponsored car) without any accidents.  Once down, drenched in sweat, exhausted, and burning up in our long sleeves and pants (as advised for the “incredibly cold summit”…bullshit), we took our first midday break of the entire trip-much needed!

More adventures in the Western Cape

Yesterday, rather than try to navigate our way to Cape Point and back, we went the easy route and hired a tour guide/driver for the day…best decision of the trip!  At 8:45 am, Leonard picked us up at our house and off we went to explore!  A very interesting guy, our Leonard spent 30 years working for an insurance agency, in the middle of the city with a beautiful view of Table Mountain…always looking, never experiencing.  Last year, he decided that he was tired of just observing the beauty of Cape Town, and so he got his accreditation at tourism school and has been doing half day to week long adventures all over South Africa ever since.  The tour began weaving through the downtown and waterfront areas, as we learned much more about the areas that we had been traversing for the past three days, getting an up-close view of the World Cup stadium (that has extra-large entry doors to allow for an evacuation of 70,000 people in less than 15 minutes…WOW!).  We then made our way through the seaside neighborhoods and suburbs of CT: Sea Point, Clifton, Llandudno (the most exclusive home of a nudist colony), and Camps Bay (a great place for celebrity-spotting), ALL with amazing views and terrain that rival any coastal village of Europe.  We stopped at Hout Bay (excuse me, the Republic of Hout Bay as they like to be called), a quaint fishing village, and we took a boat out to Seal Island, which is four huge rocks home to hundreds of seals that play and live in the waters outside and within Hout Bay. 

From there we trekked to the ultimate destination, the Cape of Good Hope, a location that we both remember learning about in early elementary school (Leonard affirms how amazing it is how well-know the Cape of Good Hope is to Americans, being so far away from the US).  It does not disappoint; with a strong, cool breeze, and refreshingly clean, tasty air, the Cape does not disappoint and there is something truly magical about being at the SW-most point of Africa, the gateway to India for mid-millennium explorers.  Next is Cape Point, the hill atop which the first lighthouse sat, later replaced by a newer one at the point which juts into the ocean rather than up high (the old lighthouse was often covered by fog or clouds, rendering it useless to most sailors).  We finally make it to Simon’s Town for lunch, home of the South African navy and African penguins.   After a nice lunch looking out onto the bay, we began our search for penguins…they weren’t too hard to find.  Along the path through the bushes, we came across penguin after penguin hanging out in between the brambles.  Authorities don’t understand why they enjoy the warmth of the Boulders in Simon’s Town, but every time the penguins are transported to where they’re “supposed to be,” they beat the truck back to Simon’s Town.  Our final stop was at Kirstenbosch Gardens, a mecca for garden clubs worldwide.  Although we were exhausted and rushed at the end of the day, we couldn’t help but look in awe of the beauty and breadth of the Gardens’ collections.  My mom and grandmother could spend DAYS there.  They had a garden of nearly-extinct plants, a garden of aromatic plants (I have flashbacks to my childhood and my mom constantly telling me to smell her fingers after rubbing mint, chocolate mint, rosemary, sage, et cetera, et cetera), and many more.  Thus ended our cram-packed day of touring, experiencing, and enjoying the areas to Cape Point and back.

Being a tourist in the city of Cape Town

Over the past 3 days, we’ve walked all over most of Cape Town proper.  We covered Milnerton, downtown, the entire Waterfront, the Gardens, Robben Island, and everywhere in between.  We rode to Robben Island on an early morning ferry that gave us a beautiful view of Cape Town in the morning.  The island is a magical place, blending a wonderful view with an infamous history and an impressive museum and rebound from its apartheid-era usage.  The tour began with a bus tour of the island highlighting the different barracks, the town in which almost all museum/island employees live, and the home of Sobukwe, a political prisoner who was restricted to solitary living the rest of his life.  Cool fact- one of the churches on the island hosts all town weddings on one day of the year: February, 14^th, yep on Valentine’s Day…how romantic?!  The second part of the tour is led by an ex-political prisoner who took us through the barracks in which he lived, explain life in the prison, and gave us the history of the famous B Barracks that housed Mandela and many other notable political prisoners.  Our guide was imprisoned in 1978 for incitement, a charge that was evidently the popular reason for throwing a non-white political activist in jail.  There’s something truly special and unique about learning about a place as famous as Robben Island from someone who actually lived the daily abuse and persecution.  We stood in the courtyard in which Mandela was allowed his one hour outside each day and hid some of his revolutionary documents that would assist in the ending of Apartheid, we experienced history.  Our final experience on the island was not a great one though.  The island is known for being home to tons of penguins so on our way back to the ferry, we took a walk on penguin boardwalk.  We made it a third of the way down, had seen no penguins, only the hundreds of brown birds covering the path in front of us, and could no longer stand the indescribable stench of the bird poop that we soon realized we were walking through.  Needless to say, we spent the next five minutes running back to the ferry, doing our best to scrape the crap off of our shoes.

The rest of the day we spent milling around the V&A Waterfront, which is a beautiful (although very touristy) area of town, with great shops, a big mall, wonderful scenery, and colorful/impressive lodging and living that rival any major wharf or harbour view.

On Wednesday afternoon, we visited the District Six museum, which is a unique exhibition of the effects of the Apartheid-era in South African history.  In the 20^th century, the city was divided into districts, and District Six was a vibrant, diverse community of African, Colored, Indian, Muslim, and Jewish families, known for wonderful music, dancing, and living.  But in 1966, the government began the forced removal of the entire community, as the district was now a “White Group Area” and leveled the land.  The residents were moved to the Cape Flats, which are larger, more barren, drier areas of the city with little sense of community.  One of the worst parts is that the area to this day remains flat; no one developed the land.  In 1994 with the creation of the new, democratic government, the District Six museum was created to bring the former, rightful residents together to share their experiences and build a common story.  This story is what we observed in the small, but incredibly informative, 2-story exhibit of the District Six museum.  Although not directly exhibiting Apartheid and its policies and history, the story of District Six exemplifies the grave effects of the Apartheid government on non-white populations in SA.

A Dream Comes True: Welcome to South Africa

I’ll start this post with 7-year old Spencer Frederick.  A friend of my parents went on vacation to South Africa and brought him back a t-shirt with a beautiful flag of red, green, blue, yellow, black, and white, and underneath it said, “South Africa.”  Now, this was 1994: Nelson Mandela was elected president of the Republic of South Africa in the first truly democratic elections in the country’s history.  And little Spencer was fascinated!  Instantly hooked.  From that moment on, his dream was to one day go to South Africa. 

Now, with the amount of traveling in college that I was very fortunate to be able to do, one would think that South Africa would be my first destination, no questions asked.  Interestingly enough, SA always came up but lost to a much desired European destination.  My time, though, has finally come!

We landed in Johannesburg (Jo-burg to the locals) at exactly 19:12 SA time, and I could feel it in the air.  I had made it.  Even from the moment we were on board South African Airways, I knew this was going to be great.  I honestly do not have words to describe the insane scale of the Jo-burg airport.  Completed in 2009 in time for the 2010 World Cup, the place might as well be its own town.  With multiple food courts (outside security, just for visitors), we were in heaven for our second dinner in 4 hours.  South Africa has some great chain restaurants, like Spur, the “American” restaurant whose symbol is a Native American chief, or Wimpy, the SA version of McDonald’s I’m guessing, Anat, with Mediterranean fare, and best of all, Nando’s, upscale chicken dishes, obviously named after my SA travel buddy.  Then there are the insane amount of shops outside security, inside security…it’s basically Fifth Avenue crammed into an airport.  We almost missed our flight we had so much trouble deciding on dinner, only to board our flight to Cape Town and be served meal #3 in six hours.  I know y’all in no way doubt how much I enjoyed this constant activity of eating. 

Midnight- We arrive in Cape Town and although I can’t see much of anything, I can feel the beauty of the city and I have a feeling we’re going to enjoy our week.