tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-251394442024-03-07T12:11:45.439+03:00Mahlers on SafariThis is the story of a single Mom who thought it would be interesting to move her family to Tanzania for a few years. Three years later...Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-75298127704374717332010-11-08T14:47:00.016+03:002010-11-08T18:36:10.143+03:00Spooky BeachIf it is the weekend after Halloween, it must be time for the fourth annual Halloween-at-the-Beach extravaganza.<br /><br />This year about 30 families (with 50+ kids) made the 90 minute <em>schlep</em> to the former German colonial capital of Tanganyika, Bagamoyo. Poor Bagamoyo has seen much better days. In general the city, and the many beach hotels it boasts, are run-down and kind of sad. At least that is my experience of it. These days Bagamoyo is mostly the preferred spot for government-funded workshops (fill in any topic area) being not too far from Dar, but just far enough to ensure workshop participants, and their organizers, get a full per diem.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.bagamoyo.com/travellers-lodge/english/frame.htm">Traveler’s Lodge</a>, where the event has been held for the past three years, put up a grand event for us – all organized by Amy C., the queen of Halloween. The hotel is definitely the best that Bagamoyo has to offer – and this year Jaden, Rowan and I snagged one of the small but recently renovated, clean and comfortable beachfront bandas – making it a MUCH better experience than last time when we were banished to an older, more run-down, banda in the outer reaches of the garden.<br /><br />So what does Halloween look like for this rag-tag group of international revelers?<br /><br />Carve your own orb by the sea.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKtfqWWQIL43OyoqOyfkJsitQQqQ0_B9wwIayK6-i-8pxVm5j5DnrbyPUse0ZKbEfEBl1fo6UbRRgJr7DtlDmrusNeQOPp87gVbY60_sqPzRto96ZvfL4MEs_PVGwJXXkOg-YAQ/s1600/Bagamoyo+Halloween+008.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537145070201219154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKtfqWWQIL43OyoqOyfkJsitQQqQ0_B9wwIayK6-i-8pxVm5j5DnrbyPUse0ZKbEfEBl1fo6UbRRgJr7DtlDmrusNeQOPp87gVbY60_sqPzRto96ZvfL4MEs_PVGwJXXkOg-YAQ/s320/Bagamoyo+Halloween+008.jpg" /> </a><em>The local watermelons actually make great jack-o-lanterns – and are much easier for kids to carve than pumpkins.</em> <em>And like Jaden, you can eat as you carve.<br /><br /></em>Knock the hell out of a very solid parent-made (impressive) piñata.<br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyQBPBWKa66iMrD-mpH04Fmo7487ijr6sG9QpB77sa0CmFTEi67WblGHCUlJAfjxMYeqcy0J3RrnnerfwBg1cHXYioo_z6OGw5LiDTLzP8FTZoYRrRB5iC01JwCVEGvvPCF2-IA/s1600/Bagamoyo+Halloween+030.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537147575900506594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyQBPBWKa66iMrD-mpH04Fmo7487ijr6sG9QpB77sa0CmFTEi67WblGHCUlJAfjxMYeqcy0J3RrnnerfwBg1cHXYioo_z6OGw5LiDTLzP8FTZoYRrRB5iC01JwCVEGvvPCF2-IA/s320/Bagamoyo+Halloween+030.jpg" /></a> <em>Neither of my kids had much luck with the pinata.<br /></em><br />Wear the vampire teeth and eat the Sweet Tarts brought to TZ from Target that were in the pinata.</p><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDctIXWEAuOWv83PKuc-hElOdjUw6g0DCBCzKn7mgPHdu6tFDgZWzAVnSXVmBh7deDswYCPcY3zAhV0E3x6Jv_S8acm25uCFDYN-84kgB1hndZRLR5muqth0S_FgHZTr_SVCJSWA/s1600/Bagamoyo+Halloween+031.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537148381846262978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDctIXWEAuOWv83PKuc-hElOdjUw6g0DCBCzKn7mgPHdu6tFDgZWzAVnSXVmBh7deDswYCPcY3zAhV0E3x6Jv_S8acm25uCFDYN-84kgB1hndZRLR5muqth0S_FgHZTr_SVCJSWA/s320/Bagamoyo+Halloween+031.jpg" /></a><em> Actually... with these vampire teeth maybe I won't have to spend a fortune on braces for Rowan after all.<br /></em><br />Kids eat fish sticks (I don't have a photo of that) and then head back to the bandas to prepare for trick or treating. </p><p align="left"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNikhAT0reJ444nGMUEwRZKYO6lW_lMkn8tk6trwdt1JpQglaJbU6TNkHjCXpGdqr8w6b0W0niWckTLRLBHfxlOba9S8dC_5H8VQujTU6R32kEVi1FEN5hJZ2fT8w9S0EcNWm47A/s1600/Bagamoyo+Halloween+038.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537149295306802642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNikhAT0reJ444nGMUEwRZKYO6lW_lMkn8tk6trwdt1JpQglaJbU6TNkHjCXpGdqr8w6b0W0niWckTLRLBHfxlOba9S8dC_5H8VQujTU6R32kEVi1FEN5hJZ2fT8w9S0EcNWm47A/s320/Bagamoyo+Halloween+038.jpg" /></a><em> Jaden and Rowan in front of our banda with our watermelon.<br /><br /></em>Parents elaborately decorate their bandas and dress like goons, or worse.</p><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgri-C-vWM7EOH5tIKurOG72iHvC8cUeBUutpN5soK-_tQVej9XxHS1UDN4wQT4z4qNU_MHEvoDwRY4t2z6Enpl7oduIVm9QSZMJIRWIaxK-oTP7QUiq7qPqsbIHeF9bKIKtXC7Kw/s1600/Halloween+House.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537150382768642626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgri-C-vWM7EOH5tIKurOG72iHvC8cUeBUutpN5soK-_tQVej9XxHS1UDN4wQT4z4qNU_MHEvoDwRY4t2z6Enpl7oduIVm9QSZMJIRWIaxK-oTP7QUiq7qPqsbIHeF9bKIKtXC7Kw/s320/Halloween+House.jpg" /></a><em> I am impressed with the all-out effort some families put into their bandas – and wonder why I am somehow missing the Halloween décor spirit? Was it something that happened to me as a child?<br /></em><br />Kids trick or treat.</p><p align="left"><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGOr1dLeqwYe7wpK0SYGesGIujJWHAFbhB9hv8zc60qPIqmzgY6PSGo3iw-uTso377UDMI1xr05nrGyy9GXB6S7Q185T1V7MCP4mHitoluh-5Y-GPe5GGSQ-6NWrtF71YgFv-NA/s1600/Bloody+guy.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537152164922401250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGOr1dLeqwYe7wpK0SYGesGIujJWHAFbhB9hv8zc60qPIqmzgY6PSGo3iw-uTso377UDMI1xr05nrGyy9GXB6S7Q185T1V7MCP4mHitoluh-5Y-GPe5GGSQ-6NWrtF71YgFv-NA/s320/Bloody+guy.jpg" /></a> <em>Jaden is just taking it all in...</em><br /><br />We were lucky that there was a nice breeze the whole time, and so no cases of heat exhaustion this year.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAURHGS7g7qsuXFtR7qiwwYxM3qszzYh0LQy0NyF7an8PKOTqMjkenx6ONNIjXUTNAVV16Oa_33KWPzQjHmx3ZFVoBNb73IX-T2JKqIx3EoAwv547Y15WZTvLfnaIanFSkGhogcw/s1600/Michael+Jackson.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537151995190024130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAURHGS7g7qsuXFtR7qiwwYxM3qszzYh0LQy0NyF7an8PKOTqMjkenx6ONNIjXUTNAVV16Oa_33KWPzQjHmx3ZFVoBNb73IX-T2JKqIx3EoAwv547Y15WZTvLfnaIanFSkGhogcw/s320/Michael+Jackson.jpg" /></a> <em>The spirit of Michael Jackson joined us at the beach, too.<br /></em><p align="left">After the trick or treating the parents had their chance to drink and eat and be merry.</p><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VFEvUULwFUnk8rSoTvA9cCaCnK-83FOgfxsxIit9QXG5VBQYC3BTKqTkg4NQ89NT1O42Pk5yZ_1amLJ7PtZyS5NcEr61KNZeSaiTN_BmpeRZFBkFNDE00HHhoWwSQpWNs6-nrg/s1600/Parents+drinking.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537153326217184610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VFEvUULwFUnk8rSoTvA9cCaCnK-83FOgfxsxIit9QXG5VBQYC3BTKqTkg4NQ89NT1O42Pk5yZ_1amLJ7PtZyS5NcEr61KNZeSaiTN_BmpeRZFBkFNDE00HHhoWwSQpWNs6-nrg/s320/Parents+drinking.jpg" /></a> <em>Zombies drinking.</em><br /><br />While the kids reviewed and exchanged their booty, all while watching Scooby-Doo.</p><p align="left"><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEf40hfs0HxD0Bm5YylsN2eH7laJdtKM0etoZJDKqJDpA4sPGY2BAqZ5is5lmWjVdSrWgDHPHBjNYem8FPtMtr-FEhQpLTO65y3CVFMQcpgcClqcVETS7nti3csllDhYso_Ah2kA/s1600/Booty.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537153737773758434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEf40hfs0HxD0Bm5YylsN2eH7laJdtKM0etoZJDKqJDpA4sPGY2BAqZ5is5lmWjVdSrWgDHPHBjNYem8FPtMtr-FEhQpLTO65y3CVFMQcpgcClqcVETS7nti3csllDhYso_Ah2kA/s320/Booty.jpg" /></a> <em>Lots of classic candy you can’t find in Tanzania. Good job to the parents to planned ahead!</em><br /><br />Followed by a late night bonfire on the beach.</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2ujMei_l8wSgVMu2FsjylZu8MOKvO-j0HBYy5A0DmCM484UVqk7myMbDfFkmnNZju9trJnUWm6-4mcDsYwJz-WOFNi6cotaVrqs_l_gkFgIDDf3PdIVrx4bERf6MOZETGJ3lGA/s1600/Bonfire.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537154082299730898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2ujMei_l8wSgVMu2FsjylZu8MOKvO-j0HBYy5A0DmCM484UVqk7myMbDfFkmnNZju9trJnUWm6-4mcDsYwJz-WOFNi6cotaVrqs_l_gkFgIDDf3PdIVrx4bERf6MOZETGJ3lGA/s320/Bonfire.jpg" /></a> <em>I was worried the trees would catch fire. But I’m a worry wart and a party pooper. So there!</em><br /><br />And kids roasted and ate marshmallows imported from South Africa that don’t quite taste right. But we’re in Africa so you take what you can get. </p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCwQNauEF_eruEBKaKbq0R47YlXwjNzhpq-sRct_sdtqGLh_p-kPUiYtBo1zny72O-wlH7l9WKysrE9YLcWLkaiqY3Cg_DVU29taiWC6CHKTVDa_W2Ko6-Mb0dHGIZrNuaKv7eQ/s1600/Marshmellows+n+the+fire.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537154408052106258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCwQNauEF_eruEBKaKbq0R47YlXwjNzhpq-sRct_sdtqGLh_p-kPUiYtBo1zny72O-wlH7l9WKysrE9YLcWLkaiqY3Cg_DVU29taiWC6CHKTVDa_W2Ko6-Mb0dHGIZrNuaKv7eQ/s320/Marshmellows+n+the+fire.jpg" /></a> <em>(And isn’t it amazing you can get marshmallows at all!)</em><br /><br />The kids went to bed after midnight – a non-international travel record for them. But of course Jaden popped awake at 6 AM wanting to eat candy and play. We tried to go for a swim but the gate to the sea wasn’t open yet so we settled for pulling down all the synthetic spider webs and spooky stickers we put up the night before and waited for breakfast to start.<br /><br />After breakfast we would have gone for a swim but the tide was soooooooo faaaaarrrr out that we would have had to walk for a mile just to dip our toes in the water. So it was back in the car and we were home in Dar before noon.<br /><br />This is how we do Halloween in Dar. Shall we save a banda for you next year?<br /><br /><em>(Thanks to Amy for organizing and to all my fellow parents who helped me out with candy, décor and diet Pepsi– because I’m so lame. And thanks to Annelie for some of the photos. Next year I promise to plan better.)</em><br /></p>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com89tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-51735733157685622362010-10-29T19:14:00.002+03:002010-10-29T19:23:46.833+03:00The Fantasy of Multiculturalism, Opium of the Expat Masses – As Seen Through the Eyes of Babes<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUSQvlFZhuLU5uZ-sppGgDaBI__Wn3UViLEiEzVuxAgZXtWO6aULdDnyaic7OSMIL2HOPAmfHP9S9L56noe9Hv3QTX21dWjVK92tqeS57K19JwuGpMx6crIE-z3zLRqmBIdmUyg/s1600/International+Day+at+IST+062.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533502850569565330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUSQvlFZhuLU5uZ-sppGgDaBI__Wn3UViLEiEzVuxAgZXtWO6aULdDnyaic7OSMIL2HOPAmfHP9S9L56noe9Hv3QTX21dWjVK92tqeS57K19JwuGpMx6crIE-z3zLRqmBIdmUyg/s320/International+Day+at+IST+062.jpg" /></a><em> International Day at the IST<br /></em><div align="left"></div></div><p>Last year in the aftermath of the International School of Tanganyika’s International Day festival I wrote about celebrating the virtues of multiculturalism while also lamenting Jaden’s and Rowan’s lack of strong identities as Americans. Me, personally, I love the concept of multiculturalism, but I am also weary of the adverse effect (on kids) of not feeling connected to a place they can call home. </p><p><br />So this has left me with a serious conundrum. How can I raise both multicultural and strongly American and Jewish identified kids while living overseas (and reaping all the benefits and rewards, as such)? </p><p><br />Interestingly, this year as International Day came and went, I realized that Jaden and Rowan are now more strongly identified as Americans (and as Jews) than ever before. This is after a careful mommy-designed program which included two full months in NY over the summer (one of which was spent in camp at the Jewish Community Center), winter break spent in Israel (Really mommy almost EVERYONE here is Jewish? I’ve never seen so many Jews!), the ordering of USA by State puzzles, going overboard at Amazon.com buying books about various things American and Jewish, and long discussions about Captain America, and George Washington, the cherry tree, and his wooden teeth. </p><p><br />(They have a particular obsession with George Washington’s wooden teeth at the moment. Were they brown? Did they hurt? Did he get splinters? Did they look like teeth or trees in his mouth?) </p><p><br />One of the most interesting developments of these last few months is the new life plan they have developed for themselves, which they talk about incessantly when we are in the car. (I don’t know why, but our car talks are always the deepest conversations of the week. It is where (unprompted) they ponder God, economic injustice, racism, and more.)<br />They are surprisingly clear, on their future paths. </p><p><br />They will go to university in America and live in an apartment, in a big city, together. I can still live not in America, if I want, but I will have to go visit them, they won’t be coming to visit me. And they would prefer if I would move to an apartment nearby so that we don’t have to worry about the time difference when we Skype. </p><p><br />After university they plan to stay in America. And while Jaden will travel to see all the countries of the world in his work as an underwater paleontologist and Olympic athlete (sport yet to be determined), Rowan, the Broadway star, veterinarian, and Olympic athlete (sport also undetermined) says she won’t. She’ll stay in America and eat Good Humor ice cream and shop at Toys R Us every day. The only exception for Rowan is that she WILL go to India every year to buy beautiful salwar chemises – which she can wear as often as she likes when mommy no longer has final say over her wardrobe choices. </p><p><br />And finally, Rowan says she will find a nice Jewish man to have a baby with. (Her words, certainly not mine. But I suspect there is a whole bunch of grandma influence in that statement.) However, after the baby is born she is moving back into the apartment with Jaden so that they can raise the baby together. She has told Jaden that he can also find a nice Jewish girl to have a baby with, too, but the girl will have to leave as soon as Rowan’s baby is born. Jaden seems to be onboard with the plan. </p><p><br />It is times like this that I remember… oh yeah, they are twins. I started them in tennis lessons together with the “mommy-dream” of having tennis be something they can always have together when they are adults (e.g. get together every Saturday morning for a match and some breakfast). I didn’t quite intend for them to be so bonded that they will be discarding their Jewish-American partners after the children are born, but alas, they have time yet to change their minds. </p><p><br />But back on the topic of multiculturalism, there is one more issue I want to address here. </p><p><br />Lots of people have asked me if Jaden and Rowan are colorblind, having grown up in such a multicultural environment. They aren’t. In fact, if anything they have a heightened sense of awareness about the rainbow skin hues of their friends. They are keenly aware of where each child comes from (often two or three different countries or ethnic backgrounds) and talk about so-and-so being darker or lighter than so-and-so. For example, Rowan has four girls she considers to be her “best friends” at the moment. One is of Ethiopian heritage, another is half Ethiopian/half Tanzanian, the next was born in India, and the last one is half Finnish/half Belgian. She is keenly interested in their backgrounds. In the school and our social context there seems to be no particular judgment associated with these observations. They are just facts. </p><p><br />But when we are outside on the road, the kids ask me why all Black people are poor. And they want to know why all Tanzanians are Black. This is despite MANY conversations where I’ve pointed out that Tanzania is a country that is generally poor, and it is a country where most of the people who live here are Black, but not all. And I go to great pains to name all the people they know who are Tanzanians of European or Asian descent. And I explain that just because most Tanzanians are poor it doesn’t mean that all Black people are poor. And I point out their friends at school who are Black and not poor. I tell them that in America there are lots of people who are White and poor, and others who are Black and rich. But they refuse to believe me – and have even told me that they don’t remember seeing any Black people in America.<br />Which essentially tells me that when we are outside our four walls – be it home or school – they are seeing and taking in a completely different lessons from what they are experiencing and learning in the home or school setting. They see the poverty – but not really the color of people’s skin. They are trying to make sense of the group of grease-smudged 8 year-old boys who jumped on the car trying to wash the windows for change as we were leaving the fancy movie theatre last weekend, and the children their age playing in the dirt at the side of the road with a broken bottle when we take the short-cut through a local neighborhood on our way to the well-stocked supermarket. </p><p><br />Their real-life lessons in economic inequities are trumping the message of multiculturalism. It is skewing my planned experiment of celebrating diversity in favor of the extremely harsh realities of the world outside our windows. </p><p><br />So it seems that in order for me to tackle the next stage in their social-intellectual development our family lessons need to progress beyond multiculturalism and American identity to macro economics. </p><p><br />I wonder if Amazon.com sells books on Marxism for kids?<br /></p>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-42463475561953344692010-10-28T09:58:00.002+03:002010-10-28T10:12:25.190+03:00Unclogging the DrainYes it has been almost a year since I last posted in this blog.<br /><br />I’ve been blocked.<br /><br />I’m not really sure why, either.<br /><br />I’ve blamed it on Facebook. But that would be unfair to Facebook and a cop-out for me.<br /><br />I’ve blamed it on the fact that I’ve now been in Tanzania for four and a half years and I think I may have already said all that needs to be said about expat living that you’d find interesting. But that isn’t really true and says more about my lack of creativity than the absence of interesting Tanzania-life tidbits.<br /><br />I’ve blamed it on my last post which was a <em>tour de force </em>rant about fat discrimination (and as proven by the recent uproar over the <a href="http://www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/dating-blog/overweight-couples-on-television">Marie Claire fat-phobic blogger incident </a>a very current issue) only to decide about a month later that I was finally ready for weight loss surgery. But that would imply that I am embarrassed about my decision and I am absolutely not; or that I don't still support the views I presented, which I do.<br /><br />So just to get things unblocked I am writing this post. The purpose of the post is to open myself back up to writing - which I have missed during my unintentional sabbatical.<br /><br />So here I am. Karibu (again) to Mahlers on Safari.<br /><br />P.S. It would help me if you would let me know if there is anything in particular you’d like to hear about. I will try to oblige.Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-4960099410175781862009-11-23T20:32:00.004+03:002009-11-24T13:11:52.831+03:00Living While Fat - An American Crime<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZNU_1FgSiw50xCgoaJGw1PTCRhi26ZbwjprBXUdU3AjhPzgtdXa-Wktlrdt3BVXtpYgzIjBeoq8v1_vBBOyXu-frtObjiSIbfOx3AkJbpTR7hUyz5CAqHLlmO8lb3pZMRHwpRg/s1600/bhbbw_900.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 230px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407357881776721362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZNU_1FgSiw50xCgoaJGw1PTCRhi26ZbwjprBXUdU3AjhPzgtdXa-Wktlrdt3BVXtpYgzIjBeoq8v1_vBBOyXu-frtObjiSIbfOx3AkJbpTR7hUyz5CAqHLlmO8lb3pZMRHwpRg/s320/bhbbw_900.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I am fat. I have been fat since I was 10. And while it was never a conscious decision about how to live, after years of personal struggle and self-realization I decided long ago to not let it get in the way of living fully. Which, by the way I do, probably way more than most skinny people.<br /><br />Now I know that there are lots of people out there who are uncomfortable with the idea that someone as large as I can be professionally and personally successful, but I live to break the barriers of small-minded expectations. And although you may see me as fat on the outside, on the inside I have never been fat in the negative vitriolic way that we large people are expected to hate ourselves.<br /><br />Which is why I’m still adjusting to the recent epiphany that fat people, like me, have become the latest government-sanctioned target for ridicule and bigotry in America.<br /><br />It’s not like we haven’t been down the road of stigma and discrimination on a whole host of other issues in our ugly past before. Once upon a time Blacks were only 3/5ths the value of a White man and it was socially acceptable, and even fashionable, to call people Spicks, Fags, Kikes, Niggers, etc. It isn’t like fat kids have not been the joke of the playground since time immemorial, and it isn’t like adults supervising those playgrounds have not turned a blind eye to those particular rants – even in these days where there is sensitivity about bullying.<br /><br />Is it not bad enough that people spit the word “fat” out as a curse word or derogatory marker? In this case, the word “fat” somehow emphasizes the terribleness of some other bad trait (e.g. “she is a fat slut” when really that slutty girl is not fat at all but a fat slut is worse than a regular old slut).<br /><br />From my perch here in Tanzania it seems that what has changed is that fat is now an acceptable stigma for ADULTS and our very own GOVERNMENT to wield in America. And once again I am left wondering why it somehow makes us feel better about ourselves to put other people down for the things we fear the most. Like somehow the very presence of a fat person highlights all the insecurities we have about our own bodies – or something bigger - like the national debt.<br /><br />And to make it worse, it is my own people – fellow public health professionals – that are leading the completely misguided assault on fat people. It seems that now that we’ve largely won the war on cigarettes the public health mafia needs a new place to turn their attentions.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, it is not misguided to educate people about healthier behaviors and pitch to them the reasons why they should change, and to give them step-by-step guidance for how to make those changes. And it is not wrong to worry about the burden of obesity’s (as well as a whole long list of unhealthy behaviors) effect on our society. But in their overzealousness, my public health sisters and brothers are attacking the people who are fat rather than coming up with creative ways to deal with the undesirable behaviors or seeking to understand the true reasons why most seriously overweight people are overweight - which in my somewhat experienced opinion is really due to a complex mix of psychological and metabolic factors rather than simply too much McDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken.<br /><br />Which leads me to why it is that I am up at nearly 2 AM on a Sunday night/Monday morning, writing about fat stigma, with my blood boiling and my face turning purple with rage. Well… it is the fault of the BBC. At 11 PM I listened to an interview with the head of student health from Lincoln University in Philadelphia describe why it is that the university plans to prevent almost 80 students with BMIs of over 30 from graduating unless they take a special fitness and health education class for obese students only. And to make it worse, arguing with an editor from the student newspaper who categorized the classes as offensive and inconsequential to the degree programs that students have completed, the BBC commentator countered that the university should even reconsider investing in fat students at all since probably not long after they graduate they will just get sick and be a burden to society, and therefore a wasted education.<br /><br />WTF?<br /><br />When did it become fashionable again to deny a person an education because of their outside casing? Are students who smoke, drink, take drugs, have a family history of cancer, or have unprotected sex being subjected to special classes? Are they being told that because they may eventually be a burden to society they, too, should be divested of the degrees which they have spent four years earning?<br /><br />I hope those students sue the ass off that school. I will be the first in line to contribute to the legal fund.<br /><br />And this leads me to ask, whatever happened to loving the sinner but hating the sin?<br /><br />The truth is that when stigma increases, the ability and willingness of people to seek help for that stigmatized issue decreases. I see it all the time in my work where people living with HIV in communities where stigma is high end up denying themselves access to treatments and support that might help them live longer and put others at less risk because the social risks of seeking help are too high. Where stigma decreases, communities are better able to cope. It is in communities where the partnership between people with the disease and their friends and neighbors without the disease work together that we have seen the best successes in curbing the spread of HIV.<br /><br />It is frankly the same with fat people. The more the society around us seeks to stigmatize us, the less likely we are to feel comfortable interacting with the rest of the world, taking that exercise walk around the block, or seeking the medical assistance we need to stay as healthy as possible. Think about how unpleasant it can be to visit a new medical provider when you aren’t overweight. Then imagine what it must be like for someone who is significantly overweight to get weighed (and inevitably judged) by a stranger, be given a medical gown that doesn’t fit, meet with a new doctor who is more likely to lecture than counsel, and share your body – which you are not very comfortable in – with that lecturing stranger. It can be agonizing, demoralizing and stigma enhancing.<br /><br />Here in Tanzania I have become sick of opening up my MSN every morning to read another article about the fat tax on fattening foods, airlines denying seats to fat people with the happy approval of the rest of the country, or health insurance companies using fat as a preexisting condition to deny coverage to people who are even barely overweight. I don’t care if skinny Americans, are slightly put out by the very presence of fat people. For me their discomfort isn’t all that different than how some people 60 years ago didn’t want to have to ride the bus with Colored folks. Tough shit. The world is diverse, and not everyone can or should look like Heidi Klum.<br /><br />Fat is a human rights issue. Stigmatizing me and my kind will not make America skinnier. It will just make us unhappier, more divided, and angrier. And by the way, none of these conditions are particularly conducive to weight loss. </div><div></div><div><em>**** Edited to remove a snarky comment about people doing coke to stay thin. I was trying to be ironic, but I think it just got in the way of my message.</em></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-66068279166837351472009-11-03T21:08:00.004+03:002009-11-03T21:53:14.845+03:00My Third Culture Kids<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6hnBtSwIFrdd7-tmFXqrJ0YGMp4HIzVmvDakbGNFacbeHbr0G6NtL8eBdw8ebLLCAWK3nibXa3vXcEcDrYbgVP12gRXvcNJLrTLMgxZz1OUhQX45xqKnSMiutNvbwErm5VuEEA/s1600-h/International+Day+005.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399943173364629954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6hnBtSwIFrdd7-tmFXqrJ0YGMp4HIzVmvDakbGNFacbeHbr0G6NtL8eBdw8ebLLCAWK3nibXa3vXcEcDrYbgVP12gRXvcNJLrTLMgxZz1OUhQX45xqKnSMiutNvbwErm5VuEEA/s320/International+Day+005.jpg" /></a><em> Rowan in her Obama kanga</em></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Friday was International Day at the International School of Tanganyika - meaning that kids were to come to school dressed in their “national costume”, participate in a parade of nations (by nationality), sing songs about peace and multiculturalism in an assembly, and attend the International Festival where kids were to talk around to different areas of the football field visiting different countries to learn something new, taste a bit of their food, and get their special “passports” stamped. </div><br />I’m normally horribly cynical about this sort of thing – but since the election last year this has largely changed. I was happy to dress in red, white, and blue and march in the parade with my kids – who like a huge chunk of the American contingent were decked out in Barack Obama t-shirts. Rowan even wore a specially made Obama dress for the occasion. For me, walking with the Obama<em>ians</em>, and a scattering of cowboys and cowgirls (and even one Native American) was a joyful experience.<br /><br />It was a reminder of just how multicultural this environment really is. Personally, I was shocked with the relatively small size of the American marchers. I expected them to take up a disproportionate portion of the crowd, but really they weren’t much bigger than then South Africans or the British, and may have even been smaller than the Indian contingent (which were of course the most beautifully dressed of the lot).<br /><br />Inside the assembly, kids from South Asia, Japan and Kenya performed for the audience in between courses of Give Peace a Chance and a song called In This World Together (a poem, of sorts, about living in peace and protecting the earth). The Principal reminded the kids and gathered parents that many kids had a choice to make about which country they wanted to represent in the parade. Some kids marched with the country they were born in, some where their passport is from, some were they lived the longest, and some marched in the country of one parent, but not the other. And those that couldn’t decide marched with the “UN” contingent which also included “orphans” from countries where there were only one or two representatives like Luxemburg or Nepal.<br /><br />And since I’m so sappy, I fell for the beautiful One World image:<br /><br /><em>Living together in peace<br />Protecting the earth<br />Fighting against poverty and injustice<br />And beautiful babies and chirping birds, la de da de da…</em><br /><br />I may have been so in the moment that I actually shed a tear of joy when the South Asian contingent of India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka pointed out that they made a conscientious decision to perform together – to show how people can live in peace.<br /><br />It was only later that the downside of multiculturalism truly hit me in the face. At the festival part of International Day children were given a passport and told to visit booths from about 20 countries. In each booth the children could learn something about the country and get a treat or a small present somehow related to the country. I worked at the American booth as the passport stamper. In return for a tidbit about America (“Tell me something you know about America”) I stamped the kids’ passports and gave them a homemade chocolate chip cookie (made by little American Mommy elves and/or their cooks). It was mostly a happy task, except for the two older boys who claimed their chocolate chip cookies in exchange for information about how many people died on 9/11 when the planes hit the World Trade Towers – while wearing big smiles. That wasn’t such a nice moment. I’ve decided to blame it on their parents who must not be raising them under the banner of multiculturalism, rather than the kids themselves. At least that is what I needed to tell myself in order to get through the moment without taking them to task.<br /><br />But overall it went great. Several hundred children from age 3 to 11 came by the American booth that day and I would say about 80% of them – no matter what their country of origin - told me that Barack Obama is the American President in exchange for their stamp and cookie. After awhile that got pretty boring so I started to challenge the American kids to tell me at least one other thing they knew about America.<br /><br />Let me tell you, the answer is, not much. Well… one older kid impressed me with the knowledge that there were 13 states when America was first created and another told me that the bald eagle is our national bird. But then I looked up and realized that these tidbits were in the booth display behind them. I asked one 10-year-old American kid if he had ever heard of the Pilgrims. The silence was deafening.<br /><br />My kids, they couldn’t do any better. When I asked them a few days before International Day what America meant to them Rowan responded that it meant Grandma’s house and the Good Humor Man. Jaden said Toys R Us and escalators. Barack Obama is what they know. Even the American flag is Barack Obama’s flag in their lexicon.<br /><br />I take full credit for this failure. I should be supplementing the multiculturalism with some sort of identity-strengthening learning and I haven’t. Bad me. Now I’m wishing I could send the kids to an after-school American class where someone else could make up for my shortfalls (like having my Microsoft Word set to British English at work) with stories about the Mayflower and Jamestown. At least then they would know what American football is. (To-date they have no clue.) And perhaps they could help Rowan with her absolute obsession with wanting to be Indian (dot, not feather) which is primarily an obsession with wanting to wear colorful <em>saris</em> and <em>salwar khamises</em>. And perhaps the school could help get rid of the British<em>isms</em> that have sneaked into their daily language, like saying <em>sitting room</em> instead of <em>living room</em>, <em>nappies</em> instead of <em>diapers</em>, and pronouncing <em>naughty</em> like <em>noughty</em>. These aren’t a big deal now, but if the experiences of my adult friends who grew up overseas are any indication, it will make them freaks when they get back to school in America. And depending on how old they are when we go back, it could be a traumatic experience.<br /><br />Although we’ve been here for nearly four years, it is only now that it has really hit home that I am raising third culture kids. Or rather, intellectually I knew it was happening, but my work as a US immigration officer at International Day prompted me to internalize it.<br /><br />And don’t get me wrong, this is NOT a bad thing. There are some many wonderful things about multiculturalism (see above). But it isn’t all roses and cream either.<br /><br />According to the bible of third culture kids: <em>Third Culture Kids: The Experience of Growing Up Among Worlds</em> by David C. Pollock and Ruth E. Van Reken,<br /><br /><em>“A Third Culture Kid (TCK) is a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture. The TCK builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership of any. Although elements from each culture are assimilated into the TCK’s life experiences, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar background. </em><br /><em><br />“Two realities arch over TCK experience that shape their lives. These are:<br /><br />1. Being raised in a genuinely cross-cultural world.<br />2. Being raised in a highly mobile world<br /><br />“Other characteristics in common:<br /><br />Distinct differences. Many TCKs are raised where being physically different from those around them is a major aspect of their identity.<br /><br />Expected repatriation. Unlike immigrants, third culture families usually expect at some point to return permanently to live in their home country.<br /><br />Privileged lifestyle. Historically TCKs are members of an elitist community – one with special privileges bestowed on its members.<br /><br />System identity. Members of specific third culture communities may be more directly conscious than peers at home of representing something greater than themselves.<br /><br /></em>This definition very accurately reflects the realities are our lives now – with all the wonderful exposures they offer us, and all the losses of friends and cultural fluency ahead of us.<br />I love it and hate it, all at the same time. I still wouldn’t trade this experience for all the acculturation in the world. I hope that Jaden and Rowan will agree when they are old enough to realize what they’ve gained and what they may have lost.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I’m trolling amazon.com for children’s books about the Pilgrims and George Washington. I want them to be people of the world. But they are also Americans and I need to make sure they are proud of that, too.Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-9170844362422790232009-09-28T11:05:00.002+03:002009-09-28T11:08:51.659+03:00And for the Sins of Disconnection…<span xmlns=""> <p><span style="font-family:arial;">It is Yom Kippur and in Dar es Salaam there is no Chabad visit this year and I have no synagogue in which to pray (or think, in my case). So instead I am at home, still in my pajamas, still in bed, not quite off the grid…. Reflecting.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Every year between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur I try to make a ritual of making right whatever I might have made wrong during the year – not really with God, but with the people I may have slighted/hurt/ignored/disrespected, etc. This year doesn't particularly stand out as a year in which I've behaved poorly or particularly well. It is just another year and I am an average <em>schmo</em> with average offenses.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Yet this year I have been feeling particularly melancholy – and not only since this season of reflection has begun. I began feeling this way back before I went on home leave; and if anything home leave made it worse for me – highlighting in bright marquee a sentiment that had been steadily building.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm feeling disconnected.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I am one of those people who thinks of herself as a friend for life. I still have a large handful of friends from when I was in Kindergarten – and quite a few from even before that. I've always connected and collected friends – most in the places where I've lived – but lots whom I got to know through my work/travels/special interests. I like being a friend. I like having friends. I like keeping friends. It is sort of a hobby of mine.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Being currently unpartnered in life, those friendships matter even more. Without the benefit of a partner, who would be a natural witness to my life, friends are my lifeline, my memory, my intimacy, and more. I value them. If you are my friend, I value you greatly.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Having been in Tanzania nearly four years now I have lots of wonderful friends that I value very much. I am really a very lucky person. But it is my childhood/young adulthood friends still back in the US (for the most part) who have witnessed the majority of my life (my life before children) that I find myself longing for this Yom Kippur day.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">After four years of living apart – I feel some key relationships slipping. Or maybe, it is not really the relationships that are slipping, but rather the intensity of how they are experienced. Ever since I was on home leave this feeling has been in the background of my emotional life, and I don't like it much. I was warmly welcomed back to the US by my friends, but after getting together once or twice they were back to the lives that they are now living without me present on a regular basis. It made me feel sad, although intellectually it makes perfect sense.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">And I think that these feelings have been intensified because my longtime (pre-TZ and current-TZ) friend, Jane, has been out of the country for the past three months on medical leave. (Heal quickly and come back soon, please.) With her gone, my day-to-day witness is gone, too.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">And of course, I have very much played a role in increasing my disconnection. Facebook and blog posts do NOT create community. I may know that my friend is eating baloney on rye with Cool Whip for lunch, but that doesn't create emotional intimacy between us. You may know that I spend my Sundays at a beautiful pool on a cliff overlooking the Indian Ocean… but that doesn't tell you that I'm feeling melancholy. (And frankly, I would never use Facebook to do that. I have unfriended quite a few people who <strong>only</strong> whine about how unhappy they are on their Facebook posts. (Hmmm… kind of like I'm doing in this post?) I have my own problems, I don't need to hear about their shit as well. (Special exceptions are, of course, made for people I like who are just having a bad week – or when someone is sick or dies.)<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Being someone who abhors being unhappy I've spent the past 10 days working on getting written into MY book of life not by apologizing but by reaching out to some of the people I miss the most. Perhaps you've heard from me this past week? If not, you will soon. Or please, reach out to me. I'd love to hear from you.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">There is a hauntingly beautiful and ancient prayer that is recited during Yom Kippur that I absolutely love. When sung by a large congregation it renews and restores me and reconnects me to my ancestors. The prayer asked for God's forgiveness despite whatever misdeeds we may have committed during the previous year. In a traditional service the congregation lists things like lying or gossiping and after every 10 or so misdeeds the congregation sings the words below followed by another list of misdeeds. The non-traditional services that I prefer also include things like homophobia, racism, failing to take care of the earth, etc.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">And so this year, for the sins of disconnection…<br /></span></p><p><span style="color:#000033;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:9;">Avenu Malkenu<br /></span><span style="font-size:7;"><strong>(Our Father, Our King)</strong></span></span><span style="font-size:9;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">chaneinu vaneynu<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:7;"><strong>(be gracious with us and answer us)</strong></span><span style="font-size:9;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">ki ain banu masim<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:7;"><strong>(though we have no worthy deeds;)</strong></span><span style="font-size:9;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Asay imanu sedaka vachesed<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:7;"><strong>(treat us with charity and kindness,)</strong></span><span style="font-size:9;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Vehoshiaynu<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:7;"><strong>(and save/redem us.)</strong></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:9;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">And just in case you are interested… I found a version of Avenu Malkenu sung by Barbara Streisand on YouTube. You can listen to it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YONAP39jVE">here.</a></span></p></span>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-49526488552202186372009-08-16T10:34:00.003+03:002009-08-16T11:01:36.632+03:00Goat Races<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wGgYRIvFT0KLKYWWttPHrS6Q5WYck679qza_tK703ZULDjqoLaEQd83E9gfvzAumMs5cdQv8ul5VqYqqw2KzsHq3raUky3pEUcIae7YxYvtNFrHUBTEaHKZ3hWm_4NjnfVPQyQ/s1600-h/Raffle_Advert.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370468244336005314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 226px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wGgYRIvFT0KLKYWWttPHrS6Q5WYck679qza_tK703ZULDjqoLaEQd83E9gfvzAumMs5cdQv8ul5VqYqqw2KzsHq3raUky3pEUcIae7YxYvtNFrHUBTEaHKZ3hWm_4NjnfVPQyQ/s320/Raffle_Advert.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>A flyer for the Dar es Salaam Charity Goat Races</em> <div><div><div><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa3Dx50PgOL7wzeKOsQzyZ6qAn0M1CvXfENohyFwHq3yVt6R6BwDT4LmY6k_ILWq6a4V_jt4Y_yZggVtZBrYwBb9j88PtfGffhFaCJ6voysWpDtwyAuiyFHe7EAaBbOifaCuMNw/s1600-h/P8150318.JPG"></a></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div align="left">Yesterday I finally participated in a major Dar right of passage, the Annual Charity Dar es Salaam Goat Races. This is the fourth time the Goat Races have happened since I’ve been in Tanzania, but every other year I was on home leave in August when the event was held.<br /><br />This year, not only did I participate, but I was one of the lucky few to actually sponsor a goat in the races. Two goats, actually. My rag-tag team of about 20 people included a goat for the kids (Hanna Goatanna) and a goat for the adults (Bobgoat Marley). Teams are supposed to dress up in costumes to support their goat. Our team wasn’t into doing anything too outrageous… so the kids wore Hanna Montana t-shirts and the adults (and some of the kids) wore knit Rasta-style hats.<br /><br />(You should have seen the look of shear joy on the face of the guy from a stall on the side of a road selling knit Rasta-style hats when I pulled up and bought 17 of them on Thursday. Priceless.)<br /><br />Because we were owners we got to sit and celebrate in a huge owner’s tent where we were served Tanzanian, Indian and Middle Eastern delicacies and beer, champagne, and other such delights under a very hot and humid midday sun. Everyone around us was happy and drunk. Because we were mostly Americans (and let’s face it – compared to our South African, British, Australian and Dutch counterparts who all seem to party hard and drink a ton at any minor or major occasion, we Americans in the development community are not nearly as much fun) our team was kind of boring and not the slightest bit buzzed. But the people-watching was good and the kids had fun – even if Jaden was disappointed because he had thought we were going to the <em>Ghost Races</em>.<br /><br />On the hour, every hour, the merry reverie would stop and the masses would crowd around the goat track. Sponsors of the goats running in the upcoming heat would move into the center of the track and tell the audience why their goat was the winning goat and parade their costumes for all to see. Then the gun would sound and the goats would be off… Well… actually the goats needed to be pushed around the track with a giant bar, otherwise they wouldn’t run at all. But thanks to some hard-working goat chasers the goats would make their way around the track twice and a winner would prevail. The winning team would then make their way over to the podium where they would be awarded with a “big check” (you know, like Publisher’s Clearinghouse) and a big bottle of champagne.<br /><br />When our heat came up – at 4 PM – it had cooled down a bit and clouded over, so it was nice to parade around the center of the track and look for familiar faces in the audience. When the gun sounded and the goats were off it was Bobgoat Marley in the lead for at least the first trip and a half around the track. But in the end Hanna Goatanna pulled out from behind and beat the field of 10 goats by a head. We were victorious!<br /><br />On the winner’s podium, a lady from British Airways (the sponsor of our heat) handed us the big check for 1.8 million Tanzanian shillings (about $1500 US) which we promptly turned over to charity. Frankly we did it because we thought that is what we were supposed to do, but it turned out that we were the first ones to do it, and so the organizers made a big deal out of it and it landed us on TV. We kept the giant bottle of champagne which we drank back at my place a few hours later. That was fun, too.<br /><br />Just after our heat they did the raffle. Up for raffle were two tickets to the UK, a beach weekend at a nice hotel in Zanzibar and all sorts of wonderful things. As they pulled for the first raffle prize of the evening I heard my name called and then all of a sudden people were telling me that I won, I won! I raced with the kids up to the podium to claim my exciting prize, which turned out to be a camping stove and lantern.<br /><br />Not to be ungrateful or anything… but I would have preferred the all inclusive weekend in Zanzibar. (Sadly it has been about 10 years since I last went camping.) So now I think I’ll be holding a raffle for my household staff to unload the camping stove and lantern. They will actually have good use for these items.<br /><br />In the end the goat races were fun enough, and truth is, it was nice to have something special to break up what feels like the monotony of my life these past few weeks.<br /><br />Now I am Hally Mahler, mother of Kindergarteners (who has to wake up at 5:40 every weekday morning), Chief of Party (although HIV is no party at all), karate (instead of soccer) Mom, Sunday pool-goer, home-owner with limited electricity…<br /><br />And now… Goat Race victor!<br /><br />P.S. I have no idea, and don’t want to know, what happens to the goat after the race.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa3Dx50PgOL7wzeKOsQzyZ6qAn0M1CvXfENohyFwHq3yVt6R6BwDT4LmY6k_ILWq6a4V_jt4Y_yZggVtZBrYwBb9j88PtfGffhFaCJ6voysWpDtwyAuiyFHe7EAaBbOifaCuMNw/s1600-h/P8150318.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370466749267289266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDa3Dx50PgOL7wzeKOsQzyZ6qAn0M1CvXfENohyFwHq3yVt6R6BwDT4LmY6k_ILWq6a4V_jt4Y_yZggVtZBrYwBb9j88PtfGffhFaCJ6voysWpDtwyAuiyFHe7EAaBbOifaCuMNw/s320/P8150318.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgAo9286yQ1bjzu8Xw-SWEdn_bLDegzGW6ZSLYLAPK9UwC_LW74WFKhxuDX02KXnmyb_MyO_p55gYSCHzx0e8X8IBUoAl6TkIyL4EGvzhiceV6B2k6VY-9IcrjMAelCslz-bEhQ/s1600-h/P8150332.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370466768689179218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgAo9286yQ1bjzu8Xw-SWEdn_bLDegzGW6ZSLYLAPK9UwC_LW74WFKhxuDX02KXnmyb_MyO_p55gYSCHzx0e8X8IBUoAl6TkIyL4EGvzhiceV6B2k6VY-9IcrjMAelCslz-bEhQ/s320/P8150332.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUyIgxvjZi3-NmcMluzpOUYI3R9b1PcssAXoXBpOUcITR2wPRPdc_TCz5r8jlLZJ8TZ1mNHOtq3NuR8DQB2tt_VvoGC-iL65fg27LPY0CG_CpmnHcQOqDNOowWAUrz1M7q0Y23g/s1600-h/P8150345.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370466761535604882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUyIgxvjZi3-NmcMluzpOUYI3R9b1PcssAXoXBpOUcITR2wPRPdc_TCz5r8jlLZJ8TZ1mNHOtq3NuR8DQB2tt_VvoGC-iL65fg27LPY0CG_CpmnHcQOqDNOowWAUrz1M7q0Y23g/s320/P8150345.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilthtWxdHSgs4TTUTfKwcreFI6l7-3A81dzn_W9m-jAfqPCodx0Xdw4s1xZ6K1U07cC8-Joc_xUQzdt9hn8g1_2WN2bh_VCPV6MYg9YjohFdsHpDCeRi1gPHbv6h1cDQmJSGLdWw/s1600-h/P8150343.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370466749921702274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilthtWxdHSgs4TTUTfKwcreFI6l7-3A81dzn_W9m-jAfqPCodx0Xdw4s1xZ6K1U07cC8-Joc_xUQzdt9hn8g1_2WN2bh_VCPV6MYg9YjohFdsHpDCeRi1gPHbv6h1cDQmJSGLdWw/s320/P8150343.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div></div></div><br /></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-48259160571210665022009-08-05T21:46:00.003+03:002009-08-05T22:07:27.270+03:00America the Beautiful and Strange<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4EEhu-vS4xNhbR0WYo3jiZ3i21X4P1wTVFz0HujjF5A41Di0jfWPV_AUh-RteIepLxUj9c3MRLCTpCdo_5QNI83aMotNutwwyQlhUBugrHRXgKfoo20bXDCYIm6l0S8Dvh6G8qQ/s1600-h/P6200177.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366554517218225618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4EEhu-vS4xNhbR0WYo3jiZ3i21X4P1wTVFz0HujjF5A41Di0jfWPV_AUh-RteIepLxUj9c3MRLCTpCdo_5QNI83aMotNutwwyQlhUBugrHRXgKfoo20bXDCYIm6l0S8Dvh6G8qQ/s320/P6200177.JPG" border="0" /></a> <em>Rowan with Buzz Lightyear and Woody</em></div><br />We’ve been back in Tanzania for exactly a month now. The cooler “winter” weather and the quiet emptiness of Dar (everyone seems to be on home leave) has allowed me the time to re-enter into our lives smoothly while still having plenty of time to reflect on our five weeks in America.<br /><br />Allow me to share some of my reflections.<br /><br /><strong>If you are going to have a big accident, it is better to do it in NY than Dar es Salaam<br /></strong><br />The day after we arrived Jaden rode a bicycle into a stone wall – splitting open a big chunk of his face and requiring a frantic, bloody run to the emergency room, which was overflowing with Swine flu cases. Luckily my mother remembered that there was a paediatric urgent care centre the next town over and not only did Jaden get seen immediately, but they called in a tall, dark and handsome plastic surgeon to sew him up (who was a bit of an arrogant <em>schmuk</em>, but clearly good at his job). Medical service like this made me swoon (in a good way). But of course I am one of the lucky people with health insurance – so I’m not taking it for granted that this is typical American care. But boy did it make me glad I was there.<br /><br /><strong>Overall, I was a calmer, less frantic Hally<br /></strong><br />Unlike past visits which were punctuated by a frenzy of shopping for the things we don’t have here in Dar, I barely hit the stores this time around. To some extent, this is because we seem to have more and more of the luxuries of home available to us here (for the good or the bad – I’m not quite sure; but when you are in need of <em>El Paso</em> enchilada sauce it is nice to be able to buy the can rather than figure out how to improvise). But also I think that I’ve reached a level of acceptance and comfort with what we don’t have, and frankly none of it is so important that I have to <em>schlep</em> extra suitcases back to Dar. I didn’t even make it to the supermarket until the last week (thank you mom for taking such good care of us). Other than some semi-sweet <em>Nestle's</em> morsels, my bags were free from last minute supermarket shopping items. I didn’t even bring back bagels this time! <br /><br />I suppose you could argue that I replaced these trinket items with the puppy I brought back to Dar – and you may be right. Once we picked up the puppy, who had time to shop and pack?<br /><br /><strong>I can’t help but feel – it is nicer to be back in America with Obama as President</strong><br /><br />This time I didn’t have to spend a lot of time discussing Bush. That was a huge relief, because other than hating him personally and politically I often found myself in the unenviable position of having to defend many aspects of his health foreign assistance, which really sucked (although is obviously it is also a good thing). I can’t help but notice that all my friends and family were somehow less angry with the state of America, recession and all, although I’m sure this means that someone else’s friends and family are mighty pissed right now – which sits just fine by me. It’s their turn. Meanwhile, I am happy to report that it DOES make a huge difference to be an American abroad in the era of Barrack Very-Sane Obama – and an even bigger difference to feel proud about coming home to a country that makes sense to me again.<br /><br /><strong>Disney World really is the happiest place on earth!<br /></strong><br />The very surprising highlight of our family trip home was the six days the kids and I spent with my brother and parents at <em>Disney World</em>. I’ve NEVER desired to go there, but my mother insisted and so off we went. It was unfortunately too hot – more than 110 degrees (Orlando was having a heat wave) – so we spent as much time by the hotel pool as we did in the parks. Despite my scepticism we had a lovely time. The kids got high off of dinner with Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother (and the mice). The cheesiness of the presentations and rides in the country pavilions at Epcot tickled me pink, and made me hope that some of the people “ooohing and ahhhing” at the Mexican pavilion’s diorama boat ride through a “typical Mexican town” actually make it there someday to see the real thing. And I was truly impressed by the parade and the sound and light show, and how well everything was run.<br /><br />Seriously… thousands of people in the park and there wasn’t a single untidy bathroom stall!? The place was built 40 years ago but looks like it was put up yesterday. Oh, if only the folks at Disney would take on running a country (which they totally could) like say, Tanzania? I can only dream… (Yes, yes, I’m sure it would actually be more of a nightmare, but at least I’d have electricity and running water 24/7.)<br /><br /><strong>Americans are extremely nice but also very lazy – even by my standards</strong><br /><br />I just have to state it for the record here. Americans really are just the nicest people in the world – and I say this with some credible experiences behind me. Everywhere I went people were lovely. <a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2009/06/speaking-of-misconceptions-about-africa.html">The customer service agent might be stupid,</a> but she was still lovely to talk with. At Disney, even when visitors were sweating their faces off, and the lines were long, long, long, people were just so nice, nice, nice. <br /><br />(The fact that people actually waited calmly on lines was exciting enough for me to want to just go ahead and wait on one for fun.) <br /><br />I never heard people exchange an angry word, or saw someone cut in line or push themselves to the front. It was all orderly, sweet and lovely… like the whole country was actually composed of Cinderellas and Prince Charmings. It was, in fact, very charming.<br /><br />At first I thought that one of the reasons everything was so calm and orderly in the parks was because there were so many people with disabilities around. I was proud of Disney for their very pro-active handicap accessibility policies and that clearly they must have done outreach to people with disabilities because gosh there were soooo many people in wheelchairs all around. But when I sat down and took a good look at all these people in wheelchairs I discovered that the vast majority of people were actually able-bodied but just didn’t want to have to walk or stand in lines. It was clear that families were renting a wheelchair at the park entrance and then sharing it among themselves, so some of them actually got to sit and others push and then change places. It was a bit of a mind fuck for me – especially since my natural inclination leans towards laziness. But this was extreme.<br /><br /><strong>And yes, America really does seems to be the fattest place on earth</strong><br /><br />For good or for bad, I’m used to being the fattest person in the room – both in Tanzania and in New York or DC. But if you figure the rest of the country into the equation I am downright average-sized, which even for me (someone who proudly believes in fat acceptance) a bit of a shocking thing.<br /><br /><strong>You knew this already, but as a country we are really really really geography deficient<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2009/06/survival-skills.html">I’ve written about this already</a>. And like I said, you already knew it anyway. <br /><br />Hey can you find Tanzania on a map (or at least come close)?<br /><br /><strong>It was great to be back home in America<br /></strong><br />There is nothing like the ease with which you slip back into your cultural homeland. Within a few days my hint of a New York accent came back. The salads and the Thai food were wonderful. The energy of New York, and even Baltimore, put a spring in my step. And I marvelled at all the wonderful innovations that have become commonplace in the past three years (especially the IPhone) that haven’t yet really made their way to Tanzania. (I thought I was cool now that I have a BlackBerry Pearl.) The kids pigged out on the Good Humour Man – every day – turning their faces the florescent colours of elaborate icicle pops. And being in the bosom of friends and family – people who have known me forever – felt great. I was happy to be there and felt engaged and at ease.<br /><br /><strong>It is great to be back home in Tanzania<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2009/06/survival-skills.html">‘Nuff said.<br /></a>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-51656483482903303402009-06-29T19:38:00.002+03:002009-06-29T19:43:21.195+03:00Speaking of Misconceptions About AfricaTrue conversation with a Bank of America customer service representative just minutes ago...<br /><br />Me: I live in Tanzania in East Africa and I have discovered some ATM fraud with my bank account which I’d like to report.<br /><br />Service Rep: (With VERY strong southern accent) Now tell me, is it just beautiful over there?<br /><br />Me: Parts of it sure are.<br /><br />Service Rep: My mother-in-law has been trying to convince me to go over there to visit with her. She says she wants to run naked with the natives, but I told her that I’m not so comfortable with the idea of being naked with natives.<br /><br />Me: Uh…I don’t think you’ll find people running naked these days. In fact, they are probably better dressed than you.<br /><br />Service Rep: (Confused hesitation) Well… my mother-in-law died a few months ago anyway.<br /><br />Me: Well good. Then perhaps I can report the ATM fraud?Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-37748358270996728282009-06-06T04:48:00.004+03:002009-06-06T04:54:05.967+03:00Survival SkillsI am in the US on “home leave”.<br /><br />When I tell random strangers in America that I live in Tanzania I often get back a look that has now become familiar. It is actually more of a question than a look. The question is, “That girl, she lives in a hut?”<br /><br />Just a few days ago I was at the bank in my childhood home of Larchmont, NY trying to explain to a teller why I needed to get a new ATM card early (my current one expires in 6 months). I told her that because I live overseas, in Africa, it will be difficult to get me my new one without a lot of headache (and since I don’t have a bank account there I am entirely dependant on the card). The teller and other people working behind the counter – and even some of my fellow clients - immediately began to pepper me with questions about my life there.<br /><br />In particular, people always ask me about the amenities. On this day, the staff and clients of Bank of America couldn’t believe that I have a house not all that different than a house in Larchmont (ok, slight exaggeration – but when the water and electricity are working that is essentially true). They couldn’t believe that I live in a suburb that has much in common with Larchmont (again an exaggeration – but Larchmont has overpriced restaurants and supermarkets and one single movie theatre – just like in Dar).<br /><br />I assured them that I do not live in a hut, I have indoor plumbing (five bathrooms on my property, actually), and my life is comfortable and mostly secure.<br /><br />These revelations always blow them away. And I leave these discussions feeling a wee bit superior, patting myself on my back for having done my public service for the day – like I’m a walking Schoolhouse Rocks.<br /><br />But actually… perhaps I am really doing them a disservice? What do I really want them to believe about Africa and my life there?<br /><br />How can I explain the conundrum of the life I lead as a rich person in one of the poorest nations on earth without sounding smug or insensitive? How can I make them understand that if I had to live in a hut, I wouldn’t be there either? How can I explain that I want to make a difference, but not at the expense of too many of the creature comforts I’ve also worked hard to be able to afford myself?<br /><br />Even writing this makes me feel trite. It is the clash of my development guilt vs. my inner JAP.<br /><br />In my thesaurus search for words to describe the incongruity of my life as an American in Tanzania I come up with: paradox, disagreement, opposition, inconsistency, ambiguity, and conflict.<br /><br />In truth I feel all of these feelings more profoundly when I’m back in America – when I am forced to explain how I live and what I am doing. When I’m in Tanzania, it all seems quite natural. I’m surrounded by people of all nationalities living the same way as me – in our bubble on the Peninsula.<br /><br />In Tanzania, if you let it all in, you go crazy. I’ve seen it happen to many people.- and when it does, they can’t survive there. They had to go home, back to the West, where they can dial up or down the amount of global suffering they let in based upon how much international news they watch or whether the gossip magazines are covering a story about Angelina Jolie’s lasted humanitarian jaunt. Re-reading this paragraph I sound kind of snarky. I don’t mean to. I totally understand it. It could easily be me – especially if I wasn’t distracted by work<br /><br />But I don’t want to go home yet. Or rather, since I feel at home in Tanzania, I’m not ready to leave my home of the last 3+ years. Not yet.<br /><br />At the bank they also asked me when I plan to come back to America. That seems to be the most frequent question I get when I’m on leave – and not just from my mother. When I tell strangers and friends that I’m not sure when I’ll be done overseas they go sort of glassy-eyed. I don’t know what my exit-plan is. I know it will come – but just not yet.<br /><br />I guess I am ok living in a state of ambiguity. I’ve become talented at dealing with the paradox - good enough that the guilt and the complete lack of fairness and equity in this world doesn’t hit me as hard as it probably should until I’m actually outside of Tanzania.<br /><br />This is certainly nothing to be proud of. But it is how I have survived and thrived.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRwI49K4PaTetPnUDtUlA6U-IRH8jp0a7HrDzL2EnRdjvOMCjvRrfDi5kLZ042kPdGCaimNPqqqsH53elGf8SpqLhyES3N0_veo6E_ihrlxdeS9z4bQkYQKmM73NHcuOb5XGx2w/s1600-h/My+house.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344026517629398802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRwI49K4PaTetPnUDtUlA6U-IRH8jp0a7HrDzL2EnRdjvOMCjvRrfDi5kLZ042kPdGCaimNPqqqsH53elGf8SpqLhyES3N0_veo6E_ihrlxdeS9z4bQkYQKmM73NHcuOb5XGx2w/s400/My+house.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>My house, not long after we moved in. It is nicely landscaped now.</em>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-1202308356863376582009-06-03T00:17:00.003+03:002009-06-03T00:22:51.820+03:00Getting off my Butt - Trip to Iringa<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-L5rXbfChbey5U-eOlliIJu9vgi1vhNhkg67G61UbPCDfRRDd1dF-c4V3XWeGjCxXKjEfeSDPuTvunOWgPagZg4onCBIOROE53YOzqRYzHW78-xruYKDAt1sGRAcjqqqszetOg/s1600-h/Baobabs.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342843003609412690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 277px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-L5rXbfChbey5U-eOlliIJu9vgi1vhNhkg67G61UbPCDfRRDd1dF-c4V3XWeGjCxXKjEfeSDPuTvunOWgPagZg4onCBIOROE53YOzqRYzHW78-xruYKDAt1sGRAcjqqqszetOg/s400/Baobabs.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>The Baobab Forest</em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">About six months ago I changed jobs. As Chief of Party (wish it were as fun as it sounds) for a new initiative, I have been working hard in Dar es Salaam to get the project up and running. My staff have pretty much spent most of the last six months in the field – mostly in the region of Iringa – the place in Tanzania with the highest HIV prevalence (about 15%) and a region which is spectacularly beautiful (mountains, tea plantations, and lakes) but requires an eight hour car ride on the perilous Tanzanian National Highway if you want to get there.<br /><br />I have taken the trip many times – the first time being about 12 years ago. It never gets easier seeing the carcases of fatal car accidents on the narrow two lane highway that weaves itself dangerously up mountain passes and down along sheer cliffs that drop off into rushing rivers. Passing trucks and speeding buses pose the most danger. I never feel comfortable taking that trip – especially when I’m not driving.<br /><br />Mind you, I have many many friends and colleagues who have done this trip and no one has ever been hurt or in a serious accident. But I sit at my desk in Dar and read the newspapers over lunch. The English papers are great at reporting on highway accidents (but other more serious news – not so much). Sitting there, month after month, I managed to work myself into a wholly inappropriate tizzy about going out to Iringa to see the fruits of my staffs’ labour. I’ve been delaying it and delaying it.<br /><br />But alas... I could delay it no longer. It became politically necessary for me to go. It helped that I travelled with an excellent driver and interesting colleagues…but really… the best part of the trip was that I got to reconnect with Tanzania. Sitting at my desk I had kind of forgotten why I was there.<br /><br />Thanks to Iringa, now I remember.<br /><br />First of all, the trip was as beautiful as I remembered. To get there one passes through the teaming exurbs of Dar es Salaam into an area of arid farmlands and medium sized villages. About half way through, one enters Mikumi National Park where on a good day you can zoom along the highway and spot giraffes, elephants, buffalos, and sometimes lions. (I suppose on a bad day you would get a flat and have to change your tire in the presence of these same wild animals.) I wasn’t so lucky in that the grass was high from the recent rains and there didn’t seem to be many animals alongside the highway other than baboons and herds of giraffes on the distant plains.<br /><br />After one leave the park the highway climbs over another set of hills and deposits you in the beautiful arid Baobab forest. The Baobabs in this forest are old and huge and absolutely everywhere. At night I’m sure the trees feel like them come alive a la Wizard of Oz, but during the day they are stark and startling and just plain fascinating.<br /><br />Then it is time to climb… up into the mountains I described above. It can be slow and scary – but when I managed to catch my breath and appreciate the landscape it was also lush and tropical and beautiful. After about 90 minutes of climbing you reach the southern highlands plateau where the weather is finally cool and beautiful and the earth is a most beautiful colour of burnt orange. To get into Iringa town you have to again drive up a twisty hill filled with people dragging bicycles, produce and miscellaneous packages up a steep incline. On the early morning we left Iringa, the hills were swarming with women in colourful clothes carrying jerry cans of home brew on their heads, making the journey up the hill to the informal bars in town.<br /><br />Once in Iringa I checked into the preferred hotel of most of my staff – a clean place with tiny rooms and the hardest beds ever known to man. (At least the hardest beds ever known to Hally.) I didn’t look – but I’m pretty sure there weren’t really mattresses under the sheets. Other than the hard beds, another inconvenience was the Pentecostal church next door where hundreds of parishioners were singing, praying and speaking in tongues (seemingly as if in my bed with me) at the bright early hour of 5 AM during three of the four mornings I was there.<br /><br />Outside of Dar there isn’t much in the way of restaurants – and so you either eat at an informal street café (and play intestinal roulette) or spend night after night in the same restaurant eating the same dish of chicken (koko) and rice (wali). Chicken and rice twice-a-day for four days in a row is a hardship – but I tried to be up for the task. In the evenings I hung out with the rest of my staff… eating our dinners and drinking beer – lots and lots of beer, in some cases – which for many people is par for the course in Tanzania even on a weekday.<br /><br />And oh yeah… I was there for the work. We were running two workshops while I was there. One was for about 40 health providers from the regional hospital to train them on how to offer and conduct HIV testing for their patients as a matter of normal course. The other workshop was for a group of small NGOs (many of them NGOs of people living with HIV) who are about to receive grants from us to do HIV testing with marginalized and/or difficult-to-reach people. Some of the people in the workshop were clearly very sick. You don’t see so many walking skeletons these days – not like two or three years ago – but there were one or two in this workshop and it was a stark reminder of the reason for our work. Other people just – well – stunk. Body odor is an issue for some people in Tanzania - so when you put 40 people in an enclosed space for hours at a time, it can result in quite the bouquet. I try to not let it affect the work – but the olfactory assault can be distracting.<br /><br />There were also meetings with regional and district officials. The work they are doing is really commendable and I am honoured to be part of it. Spending all those months sitting in my office, and getting myself worked up about driving the highways, I forgot about how happy it makes me to be in the field – closer to where the work is being done. And I was very proud of what our team has accomplished in just a few short months.<br /><br />Part of the reason I moved to Tanzania was to be closer to the field, but the truth is that in Dar es Salaam I’m still not really in the field. I left Iringa promising myself that I would get out more often - to better appreciate the wonders and challenges of my home, Tanzania.</div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-53310112229341368732009-05-16T09:43:00.007+03:002009-05-16T10:24:48.285+03:00Angels vs. Demons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxaeqvg3od1rU8-LA-fr0JqDIGrRqIUuMdOZdz9AApyn6keutpXGNfGBzHYeLNy873Uc2hxMIxVKmyCD0Suwb0aUbDHIdEb5Snelm5VSws6F3xYlc4XYxkRWXKOSxfzMoNniLOlQ/s1600-h/Angels_vs_Demons_ID_by_Angels_vs_Demons.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336319106883092818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxaeqvg3od1rU8-LA-fr0JqDIGrRqIUuMdOZdz9AApyn6keutpXGNfGBzHYeLNy873Uc2hxMIxVKmyCD0Suwb0aUbDHIdEb5Snelm5VSws6F3xYlc4XYxkRWXKOSxfzMoNniLOlQ/s400/Angels_vs_Demons_ID_by_Angels_vs_Demons.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> </div><div>I had no idea that the existential struggle of good vs. evil began at age five.<br /><br />Sure… I overheard, and sometimes participated in typical kid conversations about all sorts of interesting moral issues. Some examples include:<br /><br />-Good genies vs. bad genies (depends on the color of the rug they are flying on, evidently);<br /><br />-Superfriends vs. the Hall of Doom (had to correct the cartoon induced misunderstanding that ugly = evil);<br /><br />-Good banana trees vs. bad bees (who set up nests in the flowers of said trees in our yard – setting up an interesting conversation about whether there is good and. bad in nature);<br /><br />And the ever popular:<br /><br />- Why do we have so much money and other people don’t?<br /><br />On these issues, I had plenty to say. And I thought that by talking freely about these things I was/am providing the kids with a good ethical foundation for their lives.<br /><br />So I was completely unprepared when Jaden and Rowan began to articulate their views about God and religion.<br /><br />See, I am an atheist Jew. I don’t believe in God. But I believe in Jewish culture.<br /><br />In order for me to stay connected to my Jewish culture I decided long ago that I need to participate in the important religious ceremonies and perhaps even say and repeat words that I don’t necessarily believe it, but that keep me spiritually connected to my ancestors and my heritage.<br /><br />And yes, I realize that this is an oxymoron of sorts. But it represents 41 years of negotiation between my upbringing and my inner-self and I am frankly quite comfortable with it – for me.<br /><br />But the problem is the kids. What to teach the kids?<br /><br />I firmly believe that they need some sort of progressive Jewish education – similar to what I had. During/after that they can then decide for themselves whether or not they believe or in God and all the other various associated moral and ethical issues. And if it turns out Rowan is really at heart a Zoroastrian, so be it.<br /><br />So then the second problem… we don’t live in a place where I can give that to them. If we were back in the US it would be easy. I would shell out big bucks for Sunday and Hebrew School and they would get properly indoctrinated and I wouldn’t have to do a thing other than hold a <em>Sedar</em> or two and save up for the <em>Bar/Bat Mitzvahs</em>. But here they are just about the only Jewish kids they know, and I have been remiss in teaching them because, well… , I don’t really believe any of the religious part. Up until recently, Jaden’s and Rowan’s religious education consisted of the cartoon movies <span style="color:#000099;">Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat</span> and the <span style="color:#000099;">Prince of Egypt</span>, and lighting candles and eating <em>latkes</em> at <em>Chanukah</em>. (Well… not only… but you get the drift.)<br /><br />Rowan started the search for answers when, after watching the <span style="color:#000099;">Prince of Egypt</span> just before <em>Passover</em> this year, she asked me why God would do such a horrible thing as to kill all the first born of Egypt? After all, she said, Moses and God were trying to get Pharaoh to stop doing bad things, so why did they do a bad thing themselves? Why would God kill babies?<br /><br />At first I was beaming from ear to ear, since she stumbled upon the ultimate existential question of all Western religious thought. And at such an early age! But then I panicked. In order to answer this question I had to talk about God. And this talk about God led to lots more questions about God… like: Where is God? Is God a boy or a girl? Is God good or bad? Does God know I’m here?<br /><br />I tried to do my best answering these questions without telling her that I didn’t believe any of it, but it was very hard for me. I felt like I was lying to my daughter. I couched my answers in statements like “Well we are Jewish, and Jews believe that…” But it wasn’t good. It didn’t feel right, not right at all.<br /><br />It was not long after that I realized that most of what I was saying wasn’t quite getting through in any case. I overheard Rowan having a conversation about God on the swing set at school, insisting that God lives in Egypt and nowhere else.<br /><br />(What the F? She’s having conversations about God at school???? I’m thinking I need her to spend more time with our Danish and Dutch friends who also come from atheist stock.)<br /><br />A few weeks after that, Jaden and Rowan came home from a play-date with their lovely Kenyan friend talking about Jesus and, well, the apocalypse. This very sweet boy lives with his grandparents here in Dar and the family seems very involved with a born-again Christian church. Clearly, someone had been telling stories… and after this event… I heard lots of tales about things that are completely abhorrent to my personal beliefs. For Christ’s sake, the crows were evidently going to be punished by God for killing smaller birds. And God, as it turns out, was watching our every move to see if we were good or evil and rewarding or punishing us accordingly.<br /><br />And this, my friends, was a big wake up call.<br /><br />I tried the handy, “Well, we are Jews, and Jews believe…”<br /><br />But this time it didn’t work. My noncommittal generalized responses couldn’t cut through the (evidently) very passionate beliefs pitched by their friend. Jaden insisted to me that I was wrong and his friend knows better. It was actually the first time that I couldn’t get them to believe me over someone else. It was sobering.<br /><br />I stuck the Prince of Egypt back in the DVD player so I could have a minute to think and attempt to begin the re-education process (even though perhaps it wasn’t an idea re-education).<br /><br />Truth is I’m stumped. I feel like I’ve somehow missed the boat – and if I don’t swim out and climb on NOW the kids are going to develop worldviews that risk being fundamentally opposed to mine. I’m perfectly prepared for this to happen when they are emancipated adults (OK, after 13). But I’m not prepared to cede my influence at this point in their lives. I just have to come up with a way to do it that feels authentic to me.<br /><br />Does this mean making Friday night Sabbath dinners? I don’t think so. That would interfere with our regular Yacht Club night – which is an important family ritual, too.<br /><br />But I do know that I have to find a way to create more meaningful moral/ethical Jewish-oriented lessons out of our everyday lives even though this might mean exposing them more to the cruelty of the world I have protected them from for the past five years.<br /><br />Because we are so isolated from the rest of our cultural community I am the only one who can do it. I hope I’m up to the task, <em>kenahara</em>.</div><div><div><br /><br /><p align="center"><em>Matzo ball soup from Passover</em></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336312689093262354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMNPFyN5Ps6qxkHvF10u7zlaCyZU_KKu08tVIVfRvSm4Y3xkKTriFbl-En51vc_DKoDteAHkKqyiUvcwHi_aKLEju5HVMut94GoyQZyDXU6sjCSrSwHGbLpgwAksBOjDowxWjBIQ/s400/P4080025.JPG" border="0" /></p></div></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-14696461113588428952009-05-12T00:34:00.004+03:002009-05-12T00:44:18.000+03:00Top 10 Semi-Lame Excuses Why I Haven't Posted in Six Months<strong>10. I Have a New Job</strong><br /><br />Back in September I left AED/T-MARC and took a job with Jhpiego – an affiliate of Johns Hopkins University. The new job comes with more pressure, less time to blog from work, and a new boss. And although she happens to be a good friend, she also reads this blog, and I guess I’ve been a bit shy – not to mention completely balled over by work – to post during daylight hours.<br /><br /><strong>9. I Have a New Drug</strong><br /><br />The stupid indispensible BlackBerry Pearl has taken over my life. I work from bed, I work while the kids take drama class, I work poolside, and when I’m not working I’m reading CNN, the NYTimes or TMZ on the stupid little machine that now rules my life.<br /><br /><strong>8. I Have a New Creative Outlet</strong><br /><br />Facebook is my mistress. I use her or abuse her at my whim. She doesn’t require me to entertain her with thoughtful stories about life as an expat in Tanzania. And although sometimes I ignore her completely, thanks to the stupid indispensible BlackBerry she calls me like a jealous lover, all day and all night. I can’t seem to shake her.<br /><br /><strong>7. I Have a New (Old) Weekend Activity</strong><br /><br />For those of you who remember when <a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/09/like-phoenix-from-ashes-sea-cliff-will.html">my beloved Sea Cliff Hotel burned down</a>… well… 18 months later (and one big insurance check – although I have my serious suspicions about the “accidental” nature of the fire) the Sea Cliff has reopened for business and the kids and I can be found every Sunday holding court with good friends and an interesting cast of international characters like Canadian soccer teams, Ghanaian princes, and South African hunters.<br /><br /><strong>6. I Have a New House</strong><br /><br />But actually… first I should say that we were homeless for about two months. I decided to move to a slightly larger house with a much much larger yard (more than an acre) but the house wasn’t ready yet and my old landlord decided to kick us out before we were ready to leave. So the kids and I stayed with Jane and family for about five weeks, and we stayed with Laura and Carl for about two weeks, and we house sat for another three weeks (during which time I am positive the kids and I had the Swine Flu – I promise you – it came to Africa this past flu season before it made it to Mexico). It was a tough transition but completely worth the wait. It is a great house for us – high ceilings, three bedroom/three baths inside, and an extra 5 bedroom Swahili-style house on the property that now is a laundry/storage/nanny house. The yard was essentially strewn with construction debris when we moved in, but thanks to friends with green thumbs, gardeners with the patience to plant grass one blade at a time (seriously that’s how they do it here), the rainy season, and the amazing growing power of tropical plants our yard is turning into a lush paradise giving us fresh bananas, papayas, and flowers daily. Unfortunately, paradise comes with snakes. One fell off a tree and onto my security guard’s head just last Sunday. Jaden, who was in the yard working with the gardener at the time, helped kill it with a shovel. Ah… the life skills my children are learning here on the equator.<br /><br /><strong>5. I Have a Newfound (Unfortunate) Love for the TV</strong><br /><br />During the first 2.5 years I lived in Tanzania I rarely turned on the TV at night. I’d come home from work, play and eat with the kids, and then sit at my dining room table and work/recreate on the computer. Now, because of the configuration of the house, and the fact that Rock of Love, Dr. 90210, The Girls Next Door, American Idol, Dancing with the Stars and a few British programs (like the one where hundreds of guys are auditioning with Andrew Lloyd Webber – over several months a la American Idol - for the opportunity to be Joseph in the new West End production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, or the British version of Nanny 911 which uses the same British nanny as the American show) are on every night I find myself more and more gravitated to the boob tube. I know I should be embarrassed confessing this to you. But after a day of being the boss at work, it is nice to be completely mindless in the evening, blog be damned!<br /><br /><strong>4. My Kids Have More Interesting Social Lives than Me</strong><br /><br />And there are two of them and only one of me. Like all 5 year-olds they have busy social schedules that require some level of parental involvement and carpooling. Rowan is loving karate and takes it three days a week now. Jaden has a series of best friends with better toys than him and therefore requires out-of-house play-dates. With this new emphasis on friends I’m also finding plenty of challenges. Of Jaden’s two best friends, one is a Kenyan born again Christian who has been talking with Jaden about Jesus and also divine retribution (like the crows that are evidently going to hell for killing/eating smaller birds). The other best friend is a lovely Tunisian Muslim kid who tells stories about good and evil genies and magic carpets. I tried adding stories about Passover into the mix, and I think some of it sunk in. I overheard Rowan adamantly correcting another friend that no, god isn’t everywhere. God lives in a bush on a mountain in Egypt!<br /><br /><strong>3. I Have a New Love of Parenting</strong><br /><br />Well perhaps I shouldn’t call it new. Parenting continues to grow on me – and for the past year or two it has really begun to flourish. Even 5 years into this parenting experiment I still sometimes wake up with a start that, holy shit, I’m actually responsible for birthing these amazing kids. Don’t get me wrong – I also suck at it. They still end up in my bed by 3 AM every night despite my best (ok, half-hearted) efforts at preschooler sleep training). And they don’t particularly like it when I plant myself in front of the computer in my off hours. In a bid for some sympathy/time I bought them each their own learning computers. For about a week they would sit next to me on my bed (where I do must of my computing these days) and work on their very noisy computers while I tried to get work done on mine, but alas, they have seen through my plan and are now back to demanding my undivided attention. And in a new development, I don’t much mind turning off the computer and devoting myself completely to them instead.<br /><br /><strong>2. This Blog Was the Victim of Antisemitic Hate Mail</strong><br /><br />During the Israeli offensive against Gaza in December/January I started getting some threatening Antisemitic responses to some of my older posts about the Jewish community in Dar. When I looked online at my sitemeter I could see that during the course of several days hundreds of people in India, Pakistan and the UK were reading my Jewish-themed blogs. I talked to some friends (and later officials) at the US Embassy about it and all agreed that since no specific threats against me or anyone else were being made (even though the comments felt pretty offensive to me) there was nothing anyone could do. I thought about it long and hard and decided that although there was likely no real threat to me, there was an outside chance that there could be to some of the people and places I write about (like the Israeli restaurant that serves as the center of what little Jewish life there is here in Dar) and so I took down my blog for about two months. I know that some of you tried to look at my blog during that period and couldn’t find it – and this is why. A few months ago I put the blog back up and everything has been quiet since then – until now at least.<br /><br /><strong>1. I Haven’t Had Much Need or Ability to Procrastinate</strong><br /><br />And although I love communicating with the outside world (you), to do it I need time and lack of motivation to do the million other things on my list. Truth be told, I’ve also been intimidated by my own established bar. Up until now, pretty much every blog post has been a three page essay with a coherent start, middle and end. It is a high standard to meet when you are busy and not procrastinating much. So… my new promise to you (and me) is that I will try to start posting now even when I just have a few thoughts to share – and not a fully developed enlightening story. In return, I need you to please give me feedback. It isn’t much fun to put a lot of creative energy into a post only to get one or two comments when I know that many more people are reading the blog. So… I’ll keep posting if you keep commenting and hopefully that will keep me up late at night – it is after midnight now – or make me turn off Britain’s Got Talent so I can tell some stories about the Mahlers on Safari in Tanzania. Deal?Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-63470082426402088902008-11-05T16:21:00.004+03:002008-11-05T16:32:57.471+03:0044<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwMXHDQ43A4-9NJxCuJLDoxLoZat-e5T7iqd3Cz563nEuP7WJbAixk8ubgS_RfNsYxeRyw8Beyz_-mfgzJcQwVm1dBdPbzIhanNY3CXhtVGOGsZ0EnzE5eleIaV0n5SZ3ohXEFg/s1600-h/obamabillboardksm%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265165030256385330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 350px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 260px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwMXHDQ43A4-9NJxCuJLDoxLoZat-e5T7iqd3Cz563nEuP7WJbAixk8ubgS_RfNsYxeRyw8Beyz_-mfgzJcQwVm1dBdPbzIhanNY3CXhtVGOGsZ0EnzE5eleIaV0n5SZ3ohXEFg/s400/obamabillboardksm%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">A billboard in Kisumu, Kenya - as if </span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Obama has been running for president there!<br /></span></em></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="left">Wow.<br /><br />I am exhausted.<br /><br />I am exhausted from caring so much about this year’s presidential election.<br /><br />My computer is exhausted from all the late nights we spent together – only looking at the websites that told us Obama was ahead and ignoring the negative <em>naysayers</em> – who may have had their points – but we (my computer and I) decided long ago to only live in positive <em>lala</em> land.<br /><br />My Gmail account is exhausted (and full) from the never-ending e-mails from the persistent folks at MoveOn.org, Joe Biden, David Plouffe, Michelle Obama, and Barrack Obama himself (judging from the e-mails we are already on a first name basis…. <em>Dear Hally. Let’s make history together…</em>) for ever more and more money.<br /><br />In a direct corollary to this, my bank account is exhausted from all the donations we’ve made – most of them small, one of them large. (I wanted to be the person to put the Obama campaign over the top financially. Me. And let me tell you – I was a sucker for those financial appeals.)<br /><br />My colleagues are surely exhausted from listening to me talk incessantly about the US presidential election every single day at work. (My new staff and I have been sharing a conference room while we are waiting for our office to be renovated.) Every lunch hour has been spent explaining the Electoral College or some other such American institution, ad nauseam, for the past several months.<br /><br />My household staff are exhausted from washing all of the various Obama paraphernalia I’ve picked up over the past several months – T-shirts for the kids and I, stickers on the car, and even an Obama <em>kanga</em> (piece of cloth women wrap around their waists as skirts) that I proudly wore in all my free time last week – Obama’s face proudly plastered on my considerable ass.<br /><br />I’m exhausted from the fear-mongering and divisiveness I’ve witnessed – at McCain rallies, from Sarah Palin trying to put the terrorist label on Obama, as BBC crossed America on their bus collecting the opinions of “real” (small minded) Americans, and most horrifyingly from the race-baiting and hateful viral e-mails I’ve been forwarded by friends who have relatives back in Red states who actually believed their content (e.g. that African-Americans will riot no matter what the results because that is just what they do, or that NY liberals are trying to destroy the very moral fabric upon which our country is built (although I admit to feeling the same way about them)).<br /><br />My friends and I here in TZ are exhausted from going over and over the different paths to victory in the Electoral College; and from wishing we were back in the US for just this one day so we could celebrate with loved ones and feel closer to what we all felt was the inevitable history that would be made today – even though we rarely allowed ourselves to believe it fully – just in case we jinxed it.<br /><br />Tanzanians are exhausted from caring so much about an election so far away but in a land that has so much influence over their present and future. The past few weeks have been punctuated by parties and events attended by a mix of Tanzanians, Americans and people from other nationalities – electrified by the hope of a new, more reflective, more attached to the rest of the world America (which to me is a clear reminder of the pedestal upon which many people here have put America). And of course, the idea of a black African American (no hyphen because indeed he is African by only one generation) is even more mind-shattering here then it is in the US. The big joke in Kenya at the moment is that only in America can a <em>Luo</em> become President. (Because the <em>Luo</em> – the tribe that Obama’s father comes from – is politically marginalized in Kenya – and the idea of a <em>Luo</em> President is unfathomable for many people. Nevertheless, Kenya has declared tomorrow a national holiday.)<br /><br />I’m exhausted because I only pulled myself off my computer at 11:30 PM last night and then woke up and planted myself in front of the TV at 3:30 AM this morning. Just as I started watching the election results the skies opened up with torrential rain and thunder and lightening (which is rather unusual here) – a cleansing, if you will, of the political environment. The satellite was in and out – and I missed whole blocks (sometimes 30 minutes) of <em>CNN</em> and <em>Al Jazzera</em> coverage because the weather was so bad the satellite couldn’t get a connection. At some point, rain started pouring through the ceiling in my living room – right next to my TV (I just moved into my new house, which is a brand new house, so this was the first major weather it has had to endure) so I got a bucket and kept on watching until about 6 AM when I went over to my friends’, Jane and Gunnar, to watch the end with them and other friends.<br /><br />And then, around 7 AM this morning, East African Time, Barack Hussein Obama was declared the President-Elect of the United States.<br /><br />Today, I’m exhausted, but ecstatic.<br /><br />Unlike John McCain, I haven’t always had faith in America and my fellow Americans. I think we’ve made plenty of big mistakes – including most of what has happened these past 8 years.<br /><br />And I’m sure that in a few months I’ll be complaining about Obama’s stance on gay marriage, or the war in Afghanistan. But I’m going to try give him the prerequisite 100 day honeymoon period.<br /><br />Nevertheless, today I am inspired by the new American electorate – younger, more liberal on social and economic issues, and a place where millions and millions of White, Hispanic, Native American African Americans and Asian Americans voted for a Black man to lead our country.<br /><br />Today I have faith – and lots of it. I feel so proud.<br /><br />And I am proud of number 44 – Barrack Obama. He has the hopes of the whole world on his shoulders and I wish him luck.</div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-22996768586127535492008-10-07T21:48:00.005+03:002008-10-07T22:16:41.426+03:00Hoping for Nirvana<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhQ_UebRUbz9wS2TNu5rXNFcrzZQY7bjw8fvGOweqkr-a4z0w8_hJCFA9Ef77x1GV0-xq2BICnooLhKscEqI5V2-ps57zNNIcRMNWfqoGT-n0i-D0B2mWtmTzTbUGR7m98eqgbQ/s1600-h/TZ+for+O.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254492824410523842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhQ_UebRUbz9wS2TNu5rXNFcrzZQY7bjw8fvGOweqkr-a4z0w8_hJCFA9Ef77x1GV0-xq2BICnooLhKscEqI5V2-ps57zNNIcRMNWfqoGT-n0i-D0B2mWtmTzTbUGR7m98eqgbQ/s400/TZ+for+O.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ptog32uPO5Vc30l53IM0Q6n1NrzKml9n4B_D1HMZ05h3VwovY1dPgjNJpPmCaQ4e0_w4rqG5aXXYNuj2VBWdeNFG_o3b4LFN5cSMSgLlWOlKvhxLbLBIPviAgNMSMYyVJc1yaQ/s1600-h/TZ+for+Obama.jpg"></a><br /><div>This morning I drove over the speed humps into the guarded parking lot, showed my passport at the heavily fortified door, went through a metal detector, had my bag confiscated, walked down a long walkway through another bomb-proof door, and then through another metal detector and announced,<br /><br /><em>“I’m here to vote!”<br /></em><br />The room at the American Consulate was filled with others who – like me – requested their absentee ballots weeks ago, but had not yet received them. There was a special form for us, and books to help us find the addresses of where our absentee ballots should be sent (by county). The nice counselor officers helped us look up online whether or not there were Senate races in our states and the names of the candidates for the House of Representatives from our districts. The ballot was entirely “write-in” and we could only vote for national offices.<br /><br />There was something about actually writing the names…<br /><br />Barack Obama/Joseph Biden<br /><br />AND<br /><br />Nita Lowey (my district’s fabulous liberal Congresswoman)<br /><br />… that was whole-body satisfying – especially after 20 years of voting in DC where I suffered from a severe case of taxation without representation. </div><br /><div>__________________________________</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The past few weeks have been rather exciting for American political junkies in Tanzania.<br /><br />Firstly… all my morose friends who have been predicting another four years of doom and gloom (<em>“I don’t think Obama can pull this off.") </em>(What would we Democrats do without our self-doubt?) have finally turned a corner and gotten excited and, dare I even say it…. confident about this election. Too bad it took the economy tanking to perk them up.<br /><br />In the last week there have been two Barack Obama fundraising events for Americans living in Tanzania - complete with really cool t-shirts. One event, put together by my friends, was a combo fund-raiser/debate-watching party – and it was fun to see the candidates spar while drinking South African beer, sitting among my fellow partisans, on the top floor of an Irish pub, here in Dar es Salaam.<br /><br />Since I’ve been homeless for the past several weeks I’ve been staying with my friends, Laura and Carl, who are part of the US Embassy community. They have a special cable TV package called the Armed Forces Network (AFN). For those of you not familiar with it – let’s just say it is an intoxicating and toxic mix of the best and worst of American TV programs and sports (OK- no <em>The L Word</em> or <em>Will and Grace</em>) meets scary over-the-top commercials about how to avoid a terrorist attack by staying <em>under the radar</em> when leaving your home. My favorite spot features a guy and his buddy just back from <em>over there</em> (presumably Iraq or Afghanistan). The buddy seemed not quite right in the head, but his friend was trying to distract him from his suspected post-traumatic stress by taking him on a relaxing hunting trip.<br /><br />Precious, yeah?<br /><br />But the reason I’m telling you this is because AFN has a “news” channel that is switched by the <em>big satellite man in the sky</em> from CNN to Fox News, to ABC and others… seemingly without rhyme or rhythm, except that Fox seems to ALWAYS be on at prime time here in TZ (and presumably also prime time in Iraq and a big chunk of Europe).<br /><br />For me it has been fascinating watching the American news channels cover the election and the economic crisis. And while it is scary to see how badly stories are distorted from one network to another (Fox News being the biggest violator, of course) overall I’ve been really having fun. I was up at 4 AM last Friday morning to watch the Biden/Palin debate. And I’ve already set my alarm for 4 AM tomorrow so I can watch the second Obama/McCain debate. Somehow, seeing the actual American news makes me feel more connected to the election. It has also made me angrier… but that’s another story all together. Hell... I even pulled out my credit card and made another $250 contribution. Have you? You should.<br />_________________________________________________________<br /><br />If it is true that absentee ballots are only counted in tight races, then it is unlikely that mine will ever be opened. In 2004, Westchester County, NY went 58% for John Kerry, and Nita Lowey got more that 60% of the vote in 2006. (I can’t remember the exact figure).<br /><br />Nevertheless… it felt good to glance over at the other 10 or so people sitting at the same table as me, from states as varied as West Virginia, Florida and New Mexico, all of whom had filled in Barack Obama/Joseph Biden under President/Vice President on the blank line of their ballots.<br />______________________________________________<br /><br />If only the population of Americans living in Tanzania actually reflected the population of Americans in general… Sure, there would be some conservative religious types, some people in the military, and a group of security-conscious folks (we call them “third floor” here). But there would also be a big group of civic minded folks who have a great understanding of how our actions as Americans affect our image abroad and the lives of everyone else in the world. (You don’t think America’s economic meltdown is just affecting the US, do you?)<br /><br />OK… I’m waxing poetic, or perhaps even pathetic. But it can’t hurt a girl to dream, can it?<br />I’ve got my eyes on a big win on November 4th. I can’t wait to feel the joy</div></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-83880399466457366782008-10-07T21:45:00.002+03:002008-10-07T23:29:07.167+03:00Rosh Ha Shenanigans<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4ciCuhwkByhsPIdtrTm2zxoUvaCo2IAdHky-shH7IWWfqCercMmBY9dWA0TrkFFE7mhevhtLgVNV3zgQPwVHBsu_qWRRlr4I6MYOwLquYNbLlwC5naQHucVHxgRmyx8r1-1qIg/s1600-h/The+kids+with+Shmuli+-+smaller.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254485473957925378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4ciCuhwkByhsPIdtrTm2zxoUvaCo2IAdHky-shH7IWWfqCercMmBY9dWA0TrkFFE7mhevhtLgVNV3zgQPwVHBsu_qWRRlr4I6MYOwLquYNbLlwC5naQHucVHxgRmyx8r1-1qIg/s320/The+kids+with+Shmuli+-+smaller.JPG" border="0" /></a><em>Shmuli with Jaden and Rowan</em><br /></div><div align="left">Don’t ask me why, but I’ve come to treasure the regular visits the Jewish “community” in Dar has been getting from the ultra-religious missionary Chabad these past few years. I suppose the kitsch value of a pair of Hassidic rabbis walking around the streets of the city is not lost on me. These guys show up – from what feels like the planet Mars – but with an earnestness and sincerity that I find attractive, even if their brand of Judaism has absolutely nothing to do with mine.<br /><br />Last week I was at an Obama fundraiser and debate-watching party on the roof of the Irish Pub when I got the call from our resident Israeli Jew-organizers that the Chabad was back (earlier than expected – I was told they were coming for Yom Kippur) and that they were trying to organize an event for kids the next day.<br /><br />So dutifully I schlepped my kids to over to Nargila – the Israeli restaurant which is the center of all things Jewish-Dar – only to discover that my favorite Chabadnick, Shmuli, was back! This was a big surprise, since only a week or so earlier Shumli sent me a <em>mazel tov</em> on my new job – but failed to mention that he was about to get on a plane.<br /><br />I came close to wrapping Shumli in a big forbidden (the friendship that has no name) hug when I was headed off at the pass by Yaccov, Shumli’s traveling companion – and I’m guessing boss here in TZ.<br /><br />Keeping a safe distance from me – a possibly menstruating woman – Yaccov offered me a warm virtual handshake (his words, not mine) and welcomed the kids and I to the pre-Rosh Hashana art activity.<br /><br />I expected that the kids would be weirded out by the Hassidic outfits and long untrimed beards, but actually they seemed completely oblivious… and before long they were sitting with about 8 Israeli kids doing a complicated sand and glue project. And they particularly enjoyed their opportunity to blow (spit) into the shofars Shmuli and Yaccov brought out with them.<br /><br />With this positive experience behind us, I returned to Nargila the next day for a Rosh Hashanah services. <br /><br />Just like last year – it was touch and go for more than an hour on whether or not we would have a <em>minyon</em>. We had plenty of women (my friend, Laura and myself included)… but the men were only trickling in.<br /><br />With the sun quickly setting – and still missing two men, the 9 year-old son of one of the families at the service was temporarily “deputized” as a “man” (the rabbis said it was an obscure Sephardic or Kabalistic rule that you could do that – but it seemed like a scam to me) while my friend Laura frantically called her husband, Carl, to get him over to Nargila in time to read the Torah.<br /><br />Once the rabbis had gone as far as they could without a minyon, they got desperate and started telling us jokes. Shmuli told a joke only funny to a Hassidic rabbi:<br /><br /><em>A guy immigrating to Palestine (pre-Israel days) showed up with 7 refrigerators. The customs agent accused him of bringing the refrigerators in to sell but the man vehemently denied it. He explained that one fridge was for dairy, one for meat, and one for parve. When confronted about the remaining four fridges the man explained that Pesach was coming and he would need Kosher for Passover meat, dairy and parve fridges. And finally, when confronted about the remaining fridge the man explained that the seventh fridge is for the traif.</em><br /><br />Ba-da bum…<br /><br />Thank god, Carl, the 10th man, arrived just as Shumli was winding up for another joke. With Carl safely entrenched on the men’s side and handed a yarmulke, we were ready to being the Torah portion of our service.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Penina, the outgoing and opinionated Israeli owner of Narglia set out on a mission to loudly complain to the rabbis about the fact that women don’t count.<br /><br />Actually… I believe it would be safe to say that she heckled them for about an hour – including during the blowing of the shofar, the service, and even the Torah reading, with loud and wonderful zingers like (please use a strong Israeli accent to say these things in your head):<br /><br /><em>“Lucky I’m allowed to cook, thanks God. They spent the whole day standing over me like the police.”<br /><br />“All my life I count – except when these nudnicks come to Tanzania”<br /></em><br />Eventually she left the comfortable couches on the “woman’s side” and planted herself right in the middle of the divider during the reading of the Torah – staring over the Torah and watching the men on the other side. Despite pleas from the rabbis to please stop – and me pulling her aside to ask her why she hosts them every year if she hates what they are doing so much (to which she responded that she loves having them and learns so much from them every time they come), she continued to jar and tease and heckle.<br /><br />It would be totally offensive if it wasn’t actually so hilarious. It was everything Laura and I could do to stop from doubling over with laughter as each comment was more outrageous than the last. And as if to highlight the points she was making, the rabbis put no prayer books on the women’s side until we complained after the service started, and eventually they threw the women’s side a bone, asking me to read a rabbinical commentary about how important women are on Rosh Hashanah, as evidenced by the fact that both Sarah and Hannah are said to have birthed babies on that day. <br /><br />Lame, huh?<br /><br />Let me just say that although I totally agreed with Penina’s sentiments about the exclusion and marginalization of women, I found the forum she chose to express them in rather inappropriate. This was a shit or get off the pot moment. Either participate and shut up, or boycott and stay out.<br /><br />Nevertheless, the evening ended well with a small meal of delicious salads that Penina had prepared (overseen by the Kosher eagle-eye of Yaccov). All the participants were grateful for the hospitality, and even the rabbis seemed to relax a bit now that the show was over. <br /><br />When I left I wondered how Yaccov and Shmuli would fare for the next 10 day until Yom Kippur living with Penina and her family.<br /><br />Stay tuned here for the answer…. Yom Kippur is around the corner.<br /></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-30027823273667559612008-07-10T17:16:00.007+03:002008-07-10T17:36:15.879+03:00Eliza (and Kelly)<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QS-NIp-aRTc0ZPVlfi4abxZLnJ0No6tZUXQ1pag5rO08lmkl8yehxRXhsaqndYU9LcgxlmsGaJ9jLCrVQjr3iYQ5axsNhqbNEGEdQ8KHWknrCA5fsvqvUi0ATl-XSr_mGYXFgw/s1600-h/P6170475.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221393302296509170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QS-NIp-aRTc0ZPVlfi4abxZLnJ0No6tZUXQ1pag5rO08lmkl8yehxRXhsaqndYU9LcgxlmsGaJ9jLCrVQjr3iYQ5axsNhqbNEGEdQ8KHWknrCA5fsvqvUi0ATl-XSr_mGYXFgw/s400/P6170475.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left">I love to get phone calls from my friend and former colleague at MTV in London, Georgia. When the phone rings, and Georgia is on the line, I know that my life is about to get interesting.<br /><br />So at the end of May when Georgia called to say that she was coming back to Tanzania (and so soon after she was just here in early April) I knew that something exciting was coming my way.<br /><br />Georgia is the head of MTV’s global HIV initiative called Staying Alive. Staying Alive now has a foundation that gives small grants to amazing young people doing HIV work in the developing world. Some of their grantees are here in Tanzania. And when Georgia was in Tanzania in April I introduced her to a young Tanzanian woman I thought she had to meet… Eliza.<br /><br />Eliza is someone who has had 100 years of hardship in 20 years of life. Eliza was born in Iringa – a region whose closest parts are about 8 hours by car from Dar es Salaam. Her father abandoned her mother and his young children when Eliza was just a baby. When she was 12 her mother “sold” her to a family that wanted to use her as a house girl. The family promised that Eliza would go to school, but that never happened. In Tanzania a “purchased” house girl is the equivalent of a modern slave. She makes little (or most often) no money in exchange for a place to live. In this case, Eliza’s mother got some small money and was then freed from having to worry about one more mouth to feed.<br /><br />When Eliza got to Dar her life was hell. The family worked her seven days a week. When she was 14, the wife of the family went out one day and left Eliza home alone with her husband who brutally raped and beat her. Bruised and battered, Eliza went to the police station to report what had happened to her, but the police refused to open the case without a bribe. As Eliza was leaving the police station, the wife and husband showed up and claimed that Eliza had been stealing from them. Eliza was thrown in jail for six horrendous months.<br /><br />The day Eliza was released from jail she somehow found her way to Hyena Square. Hyena Square is a neighborhood in one of the poorest communities of Dar. It is called Hyena Square because it is, “where the people who are like the hyena – feeding off the scraps and terrorizing the neighbors come to work and live.” That same day she met a young woman who invited her to stay, brought her to the guesthouse where she lived, and taught her how to sell her body for sex to men.<br /><br />Hyena Square was one of the first places my colleagues took me to when I moved to Dar. USAID has asked me to show around a NPR reporter who was in town doing a news story, and so I asked my colleagues to take us to a place where there was sex work happening, and thus we arrived at Hyena Square. It would not be a lie to say that it was one of the most intense, overwhelming, and memorable (in a bad way) days of my life. (And truth be told, I’ve been to a lot of intense and bad places.) The square was filled with drunk and high people. Women were preparing injections of heroin in the alleyways. Men and women were meeting up in the squalid bars and guesthouses and retiring to the filthy beds in back rooms to have sex. There were some women who had several partners during the hour that I spent in one particular bar. And to top off the scene, outside a fire and brimstone-type church was blaring a sermon by a preacher who was screaming into the microphone. It was front row of a concert loud. You couldn’t hear yourself think. You couldn’t talk to the person next to you. And I guarantee you there were no conversations about condoms or safer sex that could happen in that environment.<br /><br />Eliza managed to live and work in those conditions for about four years – and somehow – by a miracle really - managed to stay off drugs. And despite all the horrors of Hyena Square there were good moments, too. Eliza has a photo album of some of the stolen happy times – a group of girls sitting on a motorcycle, or hanging out with some friends in her room. When Eliza shows you that album now she points out all her friends who are gone – most of them dead from AIDS, malaria, drug overdoses, or the many other diseases that come from living and working in such conditions and from being addicted to heroin.<br /><br />One day Eliza met some outreach workers from a local NGO that had put up a counseling booth for people in Hyena Square. She was inspired. Eliza started visiting them everyday, and eventually they invited her to join them in their “rescue house”. Eliza left her room in the guesthouse and she stopped having sex for money. She started to think about her future. And before long, Eliza was the woman in the counseling booth, reaching out to her former colleagues with advice and help to “get out”.<br /><br />She also tested HIV positive. She was devastated at first, but eventually realized that with HIV drugs and “clean living” that she was being given a new lease on life. She joined the women’s soccer league. She started doing more work to reach out to young women in similar situations. I found her because I saw a film a NGO made about her life. It was pretty inspiring.<br /><br />So now, in her early 20s, Eliza is an amazing role model. The Staying Alive Foundation is funding her to go back to Iringa, the region she came from, and work with young women and their parents to help them understand what happens when they send their daughters to be “house girls” in Dar, and to educate them about the dangers of HIV and the devastating consequences of sex work.<br /><br />So… when Georgia called to say that she was coming back to Tanzania to officially give Eliza her grant, and that she would be accompanied by international singing sensation, MTV Staying Alive Foundation Ambassador, solo artist, and multi-platinum group artist (and member of Destiny’s Child), Kelly Rowland, I must admit to thinking…<br /><br />Oy vey, another famous artist on a fact-finding tour. This is just the thing that Africa needs.<br /><br />Not.<br /><br />Or maybe…<br /><br />Kelly was coming, after all, to film MTV’s World AIDS Day program for this coming year, which will feature - in large part - Eliza’s story.<br /><br />And isn’t Eliza’s story something important to get out there? Besides the obvious inspirational qualities of her story, shouldn’t the privileged young people of the world – including Tanzanians whose families pay $80/month for satellite TV – get some insight into what life is like for millions of young people.<br /><br />But the best part was that Kelly turned out to be just the loveliest person. Georgia told me she was, but I didn’t believe it until I spent the day with her. She was thoughtful, and interested, and empathetic. Kelly asked great questions, and had just the right touch of indignation (and rightfully so) when the journalists at the press conference announcing the Staying Alive Foundation grant to Eliza asked cynical question after cynical question about the funding and the selection process instead of about the goals and objectives of Eliza’s work and the horrible situation of other young women just like her in Tanzania.<br /><br />Kelly held Eliza’s hand as she told her story. She stood by Eliza’s side as Eliza gave her an unabridged tour of Hyena Square. Kelly got down on the ground to look into the eyes of a shy young woman with a baby engaging in sex work for money and drugs. She shared that she, too, grew up in a household with no father and understands that loss, but also believes in the power of faith and perseverance to create a better life for herself – just like Eliza. .<br /><br />Kelly is beautiful on the outside, and she seems to be pretty lovely on the inside, too – just like Eliza.<br /><br />In fact, the two of them – the American international pop sensation and the Tanzanian former sex worker – had more in common than you might think possible.<br /><br />But isn’t that just the thing? Two people, from anywhere in the world, with the right dose of empathy can connect with each other at the most basic human level for the purpose of doing good.<br /><br />Got hope?<br /></div><div><div>I do. </div><div> </div><div><em>(Photos below... Kelly and Vanessa (in yellow), MTV Tanzania's VJ talking with Eliza and a young woman still involved in the sex trade. Me and Kelly. Me and Georgia!)<br /></em><br /></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBW3UyyAawQzrEykxQKimau7uuNBNgilAvMd1IK0oZXCWOcbsJNTybDkesvjHxL06S-GEkn8sNshAX6TXvOdJFU1nfsYKs_wy5mQaI6cgaW6Ro6ru_JdpQmNdOFWX2r1lIsnhX9Q/s1600-h/P6170481.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221390891340808818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBW3UyyAawQzrEykxQKimau7uuNBNgilAvMd1IK0oZXCWOcbsJNTybDkesvjHxL06S-GEkn8sNshAX6TXvOdJFU1nfsYKs_wy5mQaI6cgaW6Ro6ru_JdpQmNdOFWX2r1lIsnhX9Q/s400/P6170481.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7hSUpatG45bq4i_tzfki9xhCCnTpayDvUy086vxRww6me-0niRT-j204000IfVuTEacvJ627-qSDZz4ZP7w84E0WDNYmOapBI8eI8Y61Y2Q-RcNS8Q34cft6BVya3fO15JhvYA/s1600-h/P6170487.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221391475188390994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7hSUpatG45bq4i_tzfki9xhCCnTpayDvUy086vxRww6me-0niRT-j204000IfVuTEacvJ627-qSDZz4ZP7w84E0WDNYmOapBI8eI8Y61Y2Q-RcNS8Q34cft6BVya3fO15JhvYA/s400/P6170487.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNkA5RCtcZj5IT5gCsQmC3aQg6aaF1XHRGD2PeNVK1ifO7UBCLdv5l3puADaAxSdad6Vzh4W0UyVr09Mbt3rTg_FPA2j-kUzDW8nstdI6_XSQqJV9AqSuSKqck-YA1ETaa5IbQw/s1600-h/P6170450.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221392579185320850" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNkA5RCtcZj5IT5gCsQmC3aQg6aaF1XHRGD2PeNVK1ifO7UBCLdv5l3puADaAxSdad6Vzh4W0UyVr09Mbt3rTg_FPA2j-kUzDW8nstdI6_XSQqJV9AqSuSKqck-YA1ETaa5IbQw/s400/P6170450.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div><br /></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-33438724971781604372008-07-02T20:28:00.004+03:002008-07-02T20:51:14.643+03:00Banking on Obama<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXA78PMJhNKgRgQf44iCP0tpmNZqjn9QHS2sqZmmtEZka5tWS1Es51vdvb9n-3mb3eoGWuJ8iBcT5baZZ5aT8Pnc4TzF-aF5sPrh9QPk9zPjxYW01TVToXGYlnvxX3_GJRFqheHg/s1600-h/192079268v10_150x150_Front_Color-AshGrey.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218472304019841954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXA78PMJhNKgRgQf44iCP0tpmNZqjn9QHS2sqZmmtEZka5tWS1Es51vdvb9n-3mb3eoGWuJ8iBcT5baZZ5aT8Pnc4TzF-aF5sPrh9QPk9zPjxYW01TVToXGYlnvxX3_GJRFqheHg/s400/192079268v10_150x150_Front_Color-AshGrey.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><div>Ever since the democratic primary season effectively ended last month, local news about the US presidential election has slowed to a trickle. The savory (and sometimes unsavory) spectacle of the Clinton-Obama fight was front page news all over Africa. Here in Tanzania, not a day went by without a Tanzanian – friend or stranger – asking me who I was supporting in the US election. And I must admit that conversations about why I was supporting Clinton over Obama were sometimes uncomfortable. I’m not sure that many people understood that the color of Clinton’s or Obama’s skin, or their sex, had nothing to do with my choice of who to support in the primary. I voted with my brain. I have no regrets. I think that Hilary was the better candidate. But she lost. And I am over that now.<br /><br />As Dr. Stroll, my European History professor in Paris, used to say, “Kid, the “what ifs” of history – they just don’t count.”<br /><br />The slow trickle of election news these past few weeks, for me, has left it somewhat out-of-sight/out-of-mind. But this past Saturday morning, as I was lounging in bed (the one blessed morning of the week when the kids and I don’t have to get up early and the housekeeper can watch the kids for a few hours), BBC radio played a great piece about Obama and Clinton’s appearance together in Unity, New Hampshire. The piece was totally inspiring… about how they chatted about both important and mundane things on the airplane ride up to New Hampshire, about how they were wearing matching clothes, about how he escorted her up the stairs of the plane by placing a gentle guiding hand on her lower back <em>(and don’t gender bait me – I think that is sort of sweet)</em>, about how they both said favorable things about each other during their speeches, and finally about how recently both the formal rivals and their spouses pulled out their checkbooks and wrote the maximum contributions to each other’s campaigns. Barack and Michelle helped to retire Hillary’s debt. Hillary and Bill supported Barack’s general election campaign.<br /><br />I was totally inspired.<br /><br />I jumped out of bed and fired up my computer. Today was the day I was going to enter the presidential race. I just had to decide - how much was it worth to me to make sure McCain’s January 2009 visit to the White House would be in the role of Senate minority leader instead of President? $100? $200? $500?<br /><br />I settled on $500. I could always donate more in a few months, I thought. $500 would be a nice donation from someone in my income bracket. It is a meaningful contribution, but not one that will break the bank.<br /><br />But when the <a href="http://barackobama.com/">Obama for America </a>website came up I was moved and inspired even more. There was a lovely photo of the Obama family and a great Kennedyesque Obama quote about his belief in the ability of individual Americans to change the country for the better. I was hooked. By the time I got to the donation page I couldn’t help myself. I felt the computer mouse moving away from the $500 box and click the $1000 box. Before I knew it I had filled in my check card information and pressed the <em>contribute</em> button.<br /><br />It didn’t go through.<br /><br />I pressed the back button and clicked the $1000 box again. I thought – what the fuck – my body clearly wants me to give this money to Obama. I’m gonna do it. Yeah… I’m gonna do it.<br /><br />This time it went through. But my Obama frenzy wasn’t over – not yet.<br /><br />How could I donate all that money but not own any Obama paraphernalia? So I went to the <a href="http://store.barackobama.com/">Shop for Obama</a> page. There I found a variety of t-shirts and other items. I put two bumper stickers in my shopping cart, because, really, how cool will it be to have Obama bumper stickers on my car out here in Tanzania? Then I went to look at the t-shirts figuring I would buy some for the kids since these kinds of websites never have my size. Alas, there were no kid’s shirts for sale. But as lark I clicked on the Obama 08 t-shirts for women. </div><div> </div><div>Lo and behold, they went all the way up to size 4X!<br /><br />Now I was really enraptured. Obama loves fat people, too!!!!<br /><br />Obama’s my man!<br /><br />I bought two.<br /><br />But I still wasn’t satisfied. I wouldn’t be able to begin my day without ensuring that Jaden and Rowan have their t-shirts, too. I Googled “<em>kids Obama t-shirts</em>” and came up with a <a href="http://t-shirts.cafepress.com/barack-obama_kids-and-baby-clothing">site that carried 17,700 different designs</a>!!! I spent another hour picking out the best of the best. By the time I was done I had identified 6 different designs I liked. Reason would have made me decrease the size of the shopping cart to two or maybe even four. But once again I thought – what the fuck – my body clearly wants me and my kids to wear nothing but Obama t-shirts for the next few months and so I pressed the “<em>purchase items</em>” button.<br /><br />Realizing that I was out of control, I called my friends, Jane and Gunnar, to get them to talk me down from this manic shopping adventure. They thought my story was pretty funny, and in retelling it I pulled myself out of the frenzy. But just in case, they had me turn off my computer and step away from it, and go back into my bedroom - just in case.<br /><br />The next day, Sunday, I sat back at my computer to pay my end-of-the-month bills. As I looked at my checking account balance I realized that something was off. I went to look at my recent transactions…<br /><br />… I had donated <strong>$2000</strong> to the Obama campaign.<br /><br />Shit. I guess that that first time I pressed <em>donate</em> it actually did go though. But what a dilemma! I started to think about how much I dislike McCain. I thought about how the Supreme Court is going to hell in a hand-basket. I imagined what it would be like for my children to spend their earliest years of political consciousness in the era of McCain (possibly 8 years!) like I did under Reagan. I remember being 12 years old and afraid of nuclear war. I don’t want that for my kids. Definitely not.<br /><br />On the other hand, $2000 is really more than I can afford right now.<br /><br />I went back and forth and decided to call Jane and Gunnar again for advice. This time they weren’t laughing. They thought I was downright ridiculous for considering making a donation larger than that which I could easily afford. And then I thought, after all, would Barrack Obama want that for me? What would Obama do (WWOD)?<br /><br />No. I decided that all the wonderful quotes on the website, and all the inspirational words at the event in Unity, New Hampshire were encouraging me to do my part, but not to overdo it.<br /><br />I wanted until Monday afternoon Tanzanian time to call the Bank of America Customer Service Center. I got the most chipper, lovely lady. I’m venturing a guess to say that she was likely African-American. She had the most wonderful strong southern accent.<br /><br />At this point it is important to note that really wonderful customer service throws me off these days. Customer service is really really really crappy here 99.99% of the time. So, I’m always ill at ease when I call a US helpline and get someone really – well – helpful.<br /><br />But she was wonderful. I told her I was calling from Africa so we needed to make this conversation as short as possible. I told her my story about pressing <em>donate</em> the first time and since it didn’t go through I pressed it a second time. She told me that she could even tell (from her magic computer terminal that sees all) that the first transaction wasn’t completed properly. She asked me if I wanted to file a claim and I said that I did.<br /><br /><em>“OK, ma’am, can I just ask you to hold for one more minute while I process your claim? We will put the $1000 back into your account even before the dispute is resolved since you are a valued Bank of America customer. I know you are calling from Africa so please just bear with me….”</em><br /><br /><em>“Sure,”</em> I said uneasily, wondering what the catch-22 would be for getting the money back before the dispute is actually resolved.<br /><br /><em>“And ma’am,”</em> said the customer service rep. (I was ready to hear the catch.)<br /><br /><em>“Yes,”</em> I said.<br /><br /><em>“Thank you so very much for your really generous donation to the Obama campaign. I think that is just really wonderful of you.”<br /></em></div><div>I was thrown off…<br /><br /><em>“You’re welcome, I guess,”</em> I responded. <em>“I suppose I am just doing it for myself.”<br /></em><br /><em>“You are doing it for all of us,”</em> she said. <em>“We really need to change the direction in which America is going. And, ma’am, your claim is being processed. But meanwhile, you should try to call the Obama for America campaign to make the claim with them, too, since that will speed this whole process up. And thank you for calling Bank of America customer service.”<br /></em><br />As I hung up I felt some regret. Perhaps I should have left my $2000 donation. Perhaps in a month or two I’ll donate that money again, intentionally. After all, by sending my money from my Bank of America account to <em>Obama for America</em> I’m banking on America being a place that I can be proud of again. A place where I want to store my most precious investments… Jaden and Rowan. And that is definitely worth more than $1000.</div></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-61723999639601353192008-07-02T18:24:00.001+03:002008-07-02T18:31:54.621+03:00Hiatus InterruptusYes, it has been awhile since I last wrote a blog post. More than two months, actually. <br /><br />I’m not really sure what happened. One minute I was feeling high, celebrating two years of blogging, and the next I couldn’t bring myself to sit down at the computer to write a post – not even a short one. <br /><br />I wasn’t feeling burnt out. <br /><br />And I had plenty of things to write about – and even composed several posts in my head. But I guess I just needed a break. Sorry. I’m going to try to do better moving forward.<br /><br />I suppose the biggest news of my hiatus – and perhaps this has played a role in my silence – is that I’ve made the decision to stay in Tanzania for at least another two years. <br /><br />It is one thing to commit to keeping a blog about two years of misadventures in Africa. It is another thing for that blog to become semi-permanent because you aren’t going back to the US anytime soon.<br /><br />So then, are the kids and I still on safari? Or are we just living our lives the same as we would anywhere?<br /><br />To tell the truth, I’m not really sure.<br /><br />Back in April when the kids and I were in the US, I had to have that very hard conversation about staying two more years quite a few times. I know that we disappointed many. But most people also seemed to understand that life here in Tanzania is generally good for us and so it makes sense to stay for now.<br /><br />But it doesn’t stop us from missing our friends and family. In particular, the kids miss escalators, Toys R Us and Grandma and Papa. I miss those same things, and also my friends, HBO, and a good roasted turkey sandwich.<br /><br />And oh… I’m really really upset that I haven’t yet been able to see the <em>Sex and the City</em> movie. There are bootleg copies in town, but the quality of the sound makes the movie inaudible. And on top of that, just 10 minutes into the film someone must have pushed the camera – so that you can only see the top half of the screen. Basically it just becomes <em>Eyes and Hair in the City</em>.<br /><br />But alas, these are the sacrifices we make.<br /><br />I hope you can bare with me while I present to you the next several posts – a combination of presently inspired posts with some rehashing of the past two months.<br /><br />Happy reading.Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-9869136672246927772008-04-21T14:34:00.002+03:002008-04-21T14:42:59.717+03:00The Boys (of Chabad) are Back in Town<em>I was totally bummed when an e-mail arrived from Chabad's Africa headquarters announcing that two more rabbis would be coming to Tanzania for Pesach if only because I would miss a prime blogging opportunity. So while the kids and I continue to enjoy a bit of vacation in the US, my friend Ruth has gratefully agreed to guest blog for me about the latest rabbinical mission to Tanzania for Passover. Thank you, Ruth!</em><br /><br />Finding a vibrant – if small – Jewish community in Tanzania has been one of the many pleasant surprises that has marked my time here. As has been recounted on this blog, the focal person of this community is incomparable Penina, Israeli matriarch and owner of the atmospheric Middle Eastern restaurant Nargila on the peninsula.<br /><br />Penina most recently gathered the tribe at Yom Kippur, but sadly I was out of town so did not get to take part in Shmuli's Big Yom Kippur Adventure. So, I was happy last week when Hally forwarded me an email from the "boys of Chabad" (as they called themselves) informing her that they were coming for Passover and asking her to tell all the Jews of Dar.<br /><br />For the uninitiated, Chabad is a Hasidic movement of Orthodox Judaism. As far as I can tell, Chabad is the closest Jews get to missionaries. While they don't proselytize, they try to gather "lost" Jews and help get them on track to be more observant. The rabbis that Chabad dispatches to far-flung places such as Tanzania tend to be young and still in rabbinical training. As I joked to my housemate Michelle, Chabad is a bit like Peace Corps for Orthodox Jews. She informed me that Chabad actually does have a program called "Mitzvah Corps."<br /><br />Two years ago, I attended my first Passover Seder at Nargila with the Jews of Dar. This Seder was officiated by two timid Chabad rabbis from Brooklyn who were no match for Penina. It did not help when one of them clearly began showing symptoms of malaria as he was supposed to be leading us in prayer. The official business was cut short after the rabbis finally gave into complaints from hungry Israelis that the food was burning and would they just get on with it.<br /><br />Last year, there were no Chabadniks, and so the Israelis ran the show, almost all in Hebrew, which made things less fun for those of us who only vaguely know the Passover story in English.<br /><br />But this year, Chabad gave us Meyer. Big, friendly, joke-cracking Meyer, with the beautiful singing voice. I was particularly fond of Meyer after it was revealed within the first five minutes of our meeting that we had both grown up in the same neighborhood (Squirrel Hill) of the same city (Pittsburgh). And indeed he looked just like the guys I used to see going to Kosher Mart on Murray Avenue in big beat-up station wagons with "MOSHIACH NOW!" bumper stickers.<br /><br />(Meyer came with another smaller, quieter rabbi, but so overshadowed was he that none of us can even remember his name.)<br /><br />This year's Seder was particularly impressive in that there were nearly 60 people in attendance. I asked Penina's eldest daughter how they found all these Jews and she just shook her head and said, "They found us!"<br /><br />The small American contingent included three 19-year-olds traveling the world on a "gap year" before starting college in the Fall. They seemed rather exhausted from their travels, but maybe it was just from the 8-hour bus ride they had taken from Moshi that day to get to Dar in time for Seder.<br /><br />There were also two very sweet British couples, a Scandinavian woman, and a whole lot of Israelis. It was very amusing to observe the contrast between the rabbis and the Israelis, most of whom are very secular – at least in outward appearance. Whereas Michelle and I had taken care to dress "appropriately" in long skirts and conservative tops, many of the Israeli women sported tight pants, low-cut, sequined tops, and dark lipstick.<br /><br />One particularly amusing tableau was at the end of the Seder, when Meyer was trying valiantly to finish the prayers. As he swayed and chanted in Hebrew, an Israeli woman who had left the table looked on from the bar with a bemused expression, cigarette in hand.<br /><br />In addition to Rabbi Meyer, one of the more memorable characters was the guy sitting across from me, who I'll call "Jacques Cousteau." Jacques is a 40-ish freelance Scuba diving instructor, currently based on Mafia Island. He exhibited the classic Israeli trait of frankness, explaining that, "when most people think of Tanzania, they think it is going to be so exotic, but let me tell you, Mafia is a really shitty place."<br /><br />When he was done complaining, Jacques showed off his party trick, which was to tell people what their "Jewish birthday" is. For instance, after I told him I was born on June 30, 1982, he screwed up his face for about two minutes and then pronounced, "Wednesday, Tammuz 9!"<br /><br />And thus, I learned something new at the Seder, which is fitting with the spirit of Passover, and of Judaism, which encourages us to always continue learning and questioning.Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-75263225440248229762008-03-31T22:06:00.018+03:002008-03-31T23:22:37.089+03:00What the Fuck Have I Done? Two Years On.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPkfNbtH3ghesDSBRiwZU649rLmvLLpasFdsmUCnAfRv7IrsT_MlqPM-3WH7guSjyRDKIjSDmoYcDooIEs4qPPKZUtYHhwoNnrdzQ7duIpQ7o-hYdXuEFfL_VTTYMqlzjGOKduw/s1600-h/J+and+R+then.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184000316405181954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPkfNbtH3ghesDSBRiwZU649rLmvLLpasFdsmUCnAfRv7IrsT_MlqPM-3WH7guSjyRDKIjSDmoYcDooIEs4qPPKZUtYHhwoNnrdzQ7duIpQ7o-hYdXuEFfL_VTTYMqlzjGOKduw/s320/J+and+R+then.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>Jaden and Rowan then and now... </em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOgLg8Oo_m-9-iuPlTYtoEKTQywfBOwsgkDQosej52e6HWu4-e9g4sL3qbO6z7VgSnoLpJwXxWjmZ_Bnq68NLeMEaPptO2v5LylVTBZWp1Dt6N4L76g1odpFGSUWOUsNFUp7axNw/s1600-h/P3210157.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184000020052438514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOgLg8Oo_m-9-iuPlTYtoEKTQywfBOwsgkDQosej52e6HWu4-e9g4sL3qbO6z7VgSnoLpJwXxWjmZ_Bnq68NLeMEaPptO2v5LylVTBZWp1Dt6N4L76g1odpFGSUWOUsNFUp7axNw/s320/P3210157.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Two years ago today I sat down at my computer desk, in my comfortable uptown Washington, DC apartment, and wrote my first posting on this blog.<br /><br />At the time I was scared shitless about a major life altering decision. I had just agreed to move to Tanzania - a place I only peripherally knew - with my small kids, to a new job with a new company.<br /><br />Holy crap, it was a big decision.<br /><br />Two years on I now know it was the best decision of my life. That step into the abyss has changed my life in only positive ways. That’s not to say that there haven’t been hardships. But for all the many many challenges of my life in Tanzania there are three or four positive counterpoints.<br /><br />I live in a tropical paradise… with weekends spent on sandy white, turquoise water beaches, or in the pool five steps from my front door. I have a job that I like. I drive a big car that handles the waist-deep water of the rainy season with ease, haven’t cleaned my own toilet in two years, and am blessed with many wonderful friends and colleagues.<br /><br />My kids run wild and free, chasing geikos and millipedes. They are tow-headed and tan all year long. They don’t remember what it feels like to be cold.<br /><br />They think there is a fundi to fix every problem. Like last week when Jaden picked up a small geiko in my bedroom and its tail came off – which is an instictive protective response. Jaden came running to me in the living room, quite upset, to say that the geiko needed a fundi to put its tail back on.<br /><br />I’m not a religious person, but I feel blessed - or whatever the agnostic version of being blessed happens to be.<br /><br />Shoot me if my Pollyanna attitude is annoying you, You might not like it, but you’ll just have to deal with it. That’s just what I am<br /><br />So in celebration of my two year blog anniversary I’ve done two things.<br /><br />I’ve compiled a list of links to my favorite Mahlers on Safari posts out of the 90 I've written in the past two years. It was hard to select just a few, so feel free to pick and choose from the titles that interest you. I hope you enjoy them.<br /><br />And, in the spirit of leaping in to the abyss anew I’ve cut off more than a foot of my hair! Well… Brian at the Sea Cliff salon cut off my hair. I think I like it. Everyone says I look 10 years younger. You’ll just have to wait to see it.<br /><br />And before I end, I need to give my annual shout-out to <a href="http://www.mom-101.blogspot.com/">Liz (a.k.a. Mom-101)</a>, who inspired me to start blogging and continues to wow me everyday with her writing, her parenting, her business acumen, and her own many leaps off the edge in pursuit of her bliss.<br /><br /><em>Asante sana</em> for sticking with me, and happy reading.<br /><br /><strong>The Original Post<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/03/what-fuck-have-i-done.html">What the Fuck Have I Done?<br /></a>March 2006<br /><br /><strong>Posts About the Expat Life<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/07/happy-8th-of-july.html">Happy 8th of July</a><br />July 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/10/sometimes-progress-is-assbackwards.html">Sometimes “Progress” is Assbackwards<br /></a>October 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/10/abode-of-peace-or-port-charles.html">Abode of Peace or Port Charles<br /></a>October 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/11/when-rest-of-world-rejoices.html">When the Rest of the World Rejoices</a><br />November 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/12/education-of-hally-mahler.html">The Education of Hally Mahler<br /></a>December 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/12/something-stinks-in-here.html">Something Stinks in Here<br /></a>December 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/02/hot-stuff.html">Hot Stuff<br /></a>Feb 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/03/what-fuck-have-i-done-one-year-later.html">What the Fuck Have I Done – One Year Later<br /></a>March 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/05/nanny-diaries.html">The Nanny Diaries<br /></a>May 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/05/swahili-school-drop-out.html">Swahili School Drop Out<br /></a>May 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/07/rockets-red-glare.html">Rocket’s Red Glare<br /></a>July 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/07/not-so-faithful.html">Not So Faithful</a><br />July 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/10/member-of-club.html">A Member of the Club<br /></a>October 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/12/member-of-club-part-ii-insurgency.html">A Member of the Club, Part II. The Insurgency</a><br />December 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2008/02/bird-in-hand-is-worth-two-bushs.html">A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two Bushes<br /></a>February 2008<br /><br /><strong>Posts About Being Jewish in Africa</strong><br /><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/06/when-you-are-only-jew-for-miles-around.html">When You Are the Only Jew for Miles Around</a><br />June 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/08/wherever-there-is-coca-cola-there-are.html">Wherever there is Coca-Cola there Are Jews<br /></a>August 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/04/dayanu.html">Dayanu<br /></a>April 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/09/shmulis-big-yom-kippur-adventure.html">Smuli’s Big Yom Kippur Adventure</a><br />September 2007<br /><br /><strong>Posts About Parenting But Still Being Myself<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/08/mama-wa-wili-and-battle-for.html">Mama Wa Wili and the Battle for Independent Hally<br /></a>August 2006<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/01/daddy.html">Daddy</a><br />January 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/12/tick-tock-time-to-close-up-shop.html">Tick Tock – Time to Close Up Shop<br /></a>December 2007<br /><br /><strong>Posts About Travel<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/10/old-me-except-old-me-didnt-come-with.html">The Old Me (Except the Old Me Didn't Come with All this Guilt)<br /></a>October 2007<br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/11/seven-hours-in-lagos.html">Seven Hours in Lagos<br /></a>November 2007<br /><br /><strong>Other Topics<br /></strong><br /><a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2007/04/club-formerly-known-as-book.html">The Club Formally Known as Book<br /></a>April 2007Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-52044784966099870162008-03-10T23:02:00.009+03:002008-03-15T08:16:12.362+03:00There Are Gays in Iran!The sun was already low in the sky, reflecting off the powder-white sand sifting between our toes, when David and I set out on our desert safari.<br /><br />The scene was pristine. Just David, me, the cloudless sky and the rolling sands dunes…<br /><br />And oh yeah… about 150 other people packed like sardines… eight to a Land Cruiser… flying like bats out of hell across the desert. We were up and down and all around the dunes at every possible angle. Cars often role over, they told us, which is why they travel in packs of 15 cars at a time. That way if you roll, there are lots of people to swarm out onto the sand to pull out your crumpled body and presumably roll your car back upright.<br /><br />Laurence of Arabia, we were not.<br /><br />This is what they call a desert safari. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wouldn</span>’t exactly call it fun, or even exciting, but it was indeed unique. Well… unique and cheesy as hell.<br /><br />Dubai is a common “get out of dodge” destination stop for those of us living in Dar. It is a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">bizarro</span> world combination of the West with an exotic Arabian cache, and only five short flying hours from home. Dubai offered the promise of air conditioned shopping malls, filthy rich sheiks, interesting modern architecture, and best of all – it was the most convenient half-way point to meet up with my friend, David, who lives in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mumbai</span>, India.<br /><br />Before I left for vacation, my mother nervously asked me if I thought that David and I would be comfortable being ourselves in Dubai. After all, I’m a fat Jew and David is a somewhat obviously gay man – not two groups often associated with fun times on the Arabian Peninsula.<br /><br />“What do you think Dubai will be like?” I challenged her.<br /><br />“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Las</span> Vegas,” she replied.<br /><br />“Well… do you think that David and I would stand out in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Las</span> Vegas?” I wondered.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Touché</span>!<br /><br />It turns out my mother was right about one thing… Dubai most resembles <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Las</span> Vegas in that everything is big, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">glizy</span>, and way over-the-top. It is a city that just pops up out of the desert. And as if to drive home the point, Celine Dion was even playing in concert that week.<br /><br />In so many ways Dubai is the city of the future. It is something massive built out of nothing. A place where (I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> been told) it costs more to desalinate a liter of water than extract a liter of oil from the sands. The buildings were monumental and sometimes fascinating. We were told that 1/3rd of all the world’s construction cranes are in Dubai and based on what I saw I totally believe it. The malls were huge and filled with all sorts of goodies like Starbucks and MAC make-up and Nike stores.<br /><br />Let me just tell you… it was heaven on earth for a frustrated shopper living in Tanzania.<br /><br />Alas, my credit card bill can testify to the reason why they call the place “Do Buy”.<br /><br />And, the rumors are true. There is a massive indoor (inside a shopping mall) ski slope. It was mind numbingly impressive – and so huge that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">couldn</span>’t even see the top of the “mountain”. Not being a skier myself (and therefore not being willing to pay the $100 to spend the day skiing) I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">didn</span>’t go inside. But as you wander the mall there are many overlook points – where you can see the people inside snowboarding downhill, riding the skill lift back up, sliding down the ice shoots, and building snow men in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">kiddy</span> area.<br /><br />I don’t even have the words to explain this engineering marvel. It left me speechless.<br /><br />Of course the best part of the trip was catching up with David – who I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">hadn</span>’t seen in nearly a year. It turns out that 80% of the people that live in Dubai are not from the United Arab Emirates, and it seems that the vast majority of those non-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Emiratis</span> are Indian – so David actually had a chance to introduce me to many aspects of his life in India via the people we interacted with in the hotel, in shops and in restaurants. We had a lovely weekend – the kind you can only have when you and the person you are with have a year of life to catch up on and the luxury of time to do it. We walked and talked, shopped and talked, smoked hookah and talked, ate and talked, lay around the hotel and talked…. You get the picture. I felt young and very alive – the way you can with an old friend who you met the first day of college. Well, that was until a 21-year-old asked us how long we’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ve</span> known each other and the answer was one year longer than he is old.<br /><br />That part <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">wasn</span>’t so fun.<br /><br />On our last day together we did the desert safari, knowing that it would be touristy, but wanting to experience the desert together, nevertheless.<br /><br />The Land Cruiser that picked us up at our hotel that afternoon was already packed with people when we got in. Our driver was a modern Arabian cowboy – he had long greasy hair and a three-day old beard – just David’s type. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">couldn</span>’t quite place the language that everyone else in the car spoke. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">didn</span>’t think it was Arabic but it seemed to be somewhat related. An hour later when we arrived in the desert at our “Bedouin Camp”, the home base for our cheesy adventure, there were suddenly 100 or maybe even 200 of them – all chatting in an unknown language as they rode ATVs up and down the nearby hills, got their names written in sand in bottles, or took a camel ride.<br /><br />And then, a young man attached himself to David. The guy was cute, in his early twenties, and spoke just enough English to introduce himself and have a simple conversation. Turns out he was an anesthesiology student, absolutely edible, and totally Iranian. And he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">wasn</span>’t alone… the rest of our temporary Bedouin friends were also Iranian. Go figure.<br /><br />The squeal of David’s and my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">gaydar</span> was practically audible. Was this guy gay?<br /><br />Well… if you believe Mahmoud <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Ahmadinejad</span> of course he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">wasn</span>’t. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmd8iS2895s">There are no gays in Iran</a>.<br /><br />But David and I can testify that there are gay Iranians – but perhaps not technically in Iran. And two weeks ago, the Iranian gay guy drove up and down the dunes of the United Arab Emirates, drank a beer with some new American friends, showed two relative strangers photos of guys kissing in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Terhan</span>, watched some belly dancing, and ate a fabulous <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">barbecue</span>… all with a fat Jew and a gay American.<br /><br />But he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">doesn</span>’t have to worry about us letting his secret out. We got him covered.<br /><br />I can't tell you what happens <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">in Tehran</span>. But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiu3XzunoOq3fRYXdxkOLzumx-7RDUGlp8l_SSlT-uG8_pFNxUtuGHltUii27DeEOjWSZGRr8c1LBtaajNN75kYpY9cv_CbRGp_U8W7GFVKPJ75XHccvSmeZACguXBR9fXVTf2JA/s1600-h/P3030034.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176415070807123122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiu3XzunoOq3fRYXdxkOLzumx-7RDUGlp8l_SSlT-uG8_pFNxUtuGHltUii27DeEOjWSZGRr8c1LBtaajNN75kYpY9cv_CbRGp_U8W7GFVKPJ75XHccvSmeZACguXBR9fXVTf2JA/s400/P3030034.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>David and I in the desert</em> </p><p><em>Leaving my footprint on the Arabian Peninsula</em></p><p><em>Riding across the desert at every angle</em></p><p><em>Belly dancing </em></p><p><em>Ski Dubai</em></p><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoUdLDQksar26llfdPHqW6KMpCkQVYFHpdU19sGyeIuD9I3a6muoEMYs2dfTE0AvSfuqL9y474WU2N3kP7DcxAacfiFBphHh19rRolHxGPvUmW8AyO80Kj78u7bySrTFiWEHvhQ/s1600-h/P3030046.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176468925402047762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoUdLDQksar26llfdPHqW6KMpCkQVYFHpdU19sGyeIuD9I3a6muoEMYs2dfTE0AvSfuqL9y474WU2N3kP7DcxAacfiFBphHh19rRolHxGPvUmW8AyO80Kj78u7bySrTFiWEHvhQ/s400/P3030046.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijeXPPBJchwPMVUwGRfNbm1IM2mUnjU4oe2DGVHmiLglchReVry1yMAZ7GxMEywpJwY5ExXo2AnUSFAwsNbf6PCLq__ZJ8dAkZmoK0n4jKqIwe5UEA4yR0VLXOrS1YeVcmNax2g/s1600-h/P3030039.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176463281815020754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijeXPPBJchwPMVUwGRfNbm1IM2mUnjU4oe2DGVHmiLglchReVry1yMAZ7GxMEywpJwY5ExXo2AnUSFAwsNbf6PCLq__ZJ8dAkZmoK0n4jKqIwe5UEA4yR0VLXOrS1YeVcmNax2g/s400/P3030039.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89L7T97UIvTFHxSYwOxGf-Mf-MsMt0mZLg5733dLnI1isfvGI58LntPSywQSnPbMcI0TFq4P8mWOqSu8VLghYOtaNtqkAlRbbpeYbeDCAhVzYf4kIzMDj-dXB9ZUp8bCEpq4cVg/s1600-h/P3030071.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176466631889511666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89L7T97UIvTFHxSYwOxGf-Mf-MsMt0mZLg5733dLnI1isfvGI58LntPSywQSnPbMcI0TFq4P8mWOqSu8VLghYOtaNtqkAlRbbpeYbeDCAhVzYf4kIzMDj-dXB9ZUp8bCEpq4cVg/s400/P3030071.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYjCg82rke5EILzv0cvGq4ztPiKybITEqL1el7l6vrLWiU8YnBCLv4yQ-IcVFiuuy82jwx1rL6GRigkIcS6u7STuXTHxinaJXJ0OmwMb1fULzlCNyyNt-X1qq6v6kZ_io3ajfDw/s1600-h/P3030066.JPG"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzJjNFmXnf0BWvy1O2tga1pv08R9f3-BYDOowKX01gT6mIJTsawfWz5IxX4lVpS8v_kVfCzGJC-nnOvm1ogFxwIic9oALL8-RcBuOTpK-mTSqx-a17CU362EfcitAHd_hI6AZHA/s1600-h/P3010005.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176462152238621890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzJjNFmXnf0BWvy1O2tga1pv08R9f3-BYDOowKX01gT6mIJTsawfWz5IxX4lVpS8v_kVfCzGJC-nnOvm1ogFxwIic9oALL8-RcBuOTpK-mTSqx-a17CU362EfcitAHd_hI6AZHA/s400/P3010005.JPG" border="0" /></a>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-36287719732094105832008-02-22T14:37:00.003+03:002008-02-22T14:55:33.053+03:00Welcome to the Potty ZoneJaden: [With a glint in his eye] <em>Mommy, what do you want on your pizza, poo poo or pee pee?</em><br /><br />Rowan: [Very serious] <em>Mommy likes pee pee.<br /></em><br />Jaden: [Big smile] <em>No, Mommy wants poo poo!<br /></em><br />Me: [Exacerbated] <em>Do I have to have one or the other? Can’t I just have a plain margarita pizza?<br /></em><br />Welcome to Hally’s wonderful world of four year-old twins!<br /><br />Just when I got excited that the kids can finally hold extended dinner conversations, they entered the twilight zone of the poo poo and pee pee years.<br /><br />This <a href="http://mahlersonsafari.blogspot.com/2006/08/mama-wa-wili-and-battle-for.html">Mama Wa Wili </a>is knee deep in shit.<br /><br />At first it was funny. I even participated actively in the conversations, drawing on the Socratic method and learning strategies; I thought if these conversations are a natural part of growing up, at least I can use poo poo and pee pee to create learning moments.<br /><br />Jaden: <em>There is poo poo by that tree!</em><br /><br />Rowan: <em>No, there is pee pee by that tree!</em><br /><br />Jaden: <em>You are pee pee, Rowan.<br /></em><br />Rowan: <em>No, you are poo poo, Jaden, and that’s not a tree. Its a forest.<br /></em><br />Me: <em>Hey you guys, if poo poo falls in the forest and no one hears it will it make a noise?<br /></em><br />Jaden and Rowan: [Together] <em>Mommy’s poo poo!<br /></em><br />They’re right, of course. It was crap to even attempt it.<br /><br />I am amazed at the breadth and depth of the poo poo conversations; at the seemingly unlimited ability for pee pee to hold their undivided attention. At times I am even grateful for poo poo and pee pee talk – as they are moments when no one is fighting, no one is taking the other’s toys, and both children are usually smiling and enjoying each other’s company.<br /><br />The poo poo and pee pee conversations have even gone so far as to get incorporated into their limited Swahili. For example, yesterday our housekeeper, Margaret, dropped a glass in the kitchen and a piece of it embedded in her leg. We rushed her to the clinic where she got 5 stitches.<br /><br />Here, when anything bad happens, if someone is sick, or even if someone misses a bus, we say in Swahili, <em>pole sana</em>, meaning <em>so sorry</em>. You can also just say <em>pole</em> (<em>sorry</em>) for short. Naturally, we were <em>pole sana</em>ing Margaret all day yesterday until Jaden decided to <em>pole poo poo</em> instead – roughly <em>sorry for your shit</em>. Margaret and the rest of the staff were totally charmed, and gave Jaden the laughs and poo poo encouragement he seems to crave these days.<br /><br />As for me, I’ve decided to try to relax and enjoy the age of pee pee. It keeps my brain young, even as my 40+ body is feeling old. But I do find myself wondering how far I should take this?<br /><br />Should I encourage them to stop?<br /><br />Should I let them talk poo poo and pee pee but not get involved myself?<br /><br />Or should I participate - encouraging them to see the intrinsic value of poo poo as a substance used to help grow plants, start a fire for cooking, or someday, to run a car?<br /><br />OK… perhaps that’s taking it too far.<br /><br />I don’t want you to accuse me of being full of shit.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfSFHk68Qcdb8CZk3wmYP31v9N5zzdU9P_wyJjBzg9znbJKC3lqFRyEr3AtDEB1dtf_zwEItmdCuz0xJgIrz8hlkZDxUIWWflZ1jDST_BudPOEU9Lqe_Ie0JbXmrhQXXd_nvlIg/s1600-h/J+and+R.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169770140505150258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfSFHk68Qcdb8CZk3wmYP31v9N5zzdU9P_wyJjBzg9znbJKC3lqFRyEr3AtDEB1dtf_zwEItmdCuz0xJgIrz8hlkZDxUIWWflZ1jDST_BudPOEU9Lqe_Ie0JbXmrhQXXd_nvlIg/s400/J+and+R.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em><span style="color:#990000;">The culprits.</span></em>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-53188653088646109132008-02-16T23:04:00.005+03:002008-02-19T11:01:11.719+03:00A Bird in the Hand IS Worth Two BushesThe madness started on Christmas Eve when I overheard a whispered conversation between two friends who work for the US Embassy in Dar.<br /><br />Picture me on the patio of a large house decorated for Christmas in the tropics. I was dressed for the special occasion and sweating profusely.<br /><br />I had spent the past five minutes trying to figure out where the kids disappeared to; searching the dark corners to make sure they weren’t torturing a dog with kindness or picking up giant millipedes with their bare hands. In my hot wet confusion I was standing behind a big plant next to the eggnog bowl when I heard…<br /><br />Person 1: [Leaning in close to whisper in her co-conspirator’s ear, but not quietly enough that I can’t hear them from behind the plant] <em>So, I hear you got stuck with the initial planning?</em><br /><br />Person 2: [Almost spitting] <em>Yeah. These VIP trips are all-consuming. My life is going to be crazy for the next few months.<br /></em><br />Person 1: <em>Are you kidding? Everyone’s lives are going to be crazy. Watch out Dar es Salaam…<br /></em><br />Being the indiscrete gossip hoarder that I am, I jumped out from the shadows, to ask:<br /><br />Me: [Excitedly] <em>Yeah? So who exactly is coming??? Bono? Dick Cheney? Bill Clinton?<br /><br /></em>Person 1: [Rolling her eyes at me for my lack of discretion] <em>I can’t tell you. But knowing you, you’ll figure it out soon enough. But I can promise you it is no one as exciting as Bono.<br /></em><br />Me: <em>Because if it’s Bono I have some brothels I want to take him to see.<br /><br /></em>Persons 1 and 2: [Eyes rolling] <em>You and your brothels!<br /></em><br />Now I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t think about this conversation during the three weeks that followed as my family visited and we traveled around Tanzania. More than once I wondered who the bigwig was.<br /><br />And then, the day after I got back from vacation, I got a call. I was urgently required at the Embassy. I needed to be there in an hour.<br /><br />Let me tell you that as popular as I may be in Dar, being called into the Embassy urgently is not normally associated with positive outcomes. So it was with trepidation that I ran over to the Embassy compound where I found myself surrounded by the top people working in HIV.<br /><br />They told me:<br /><br />A very important VIP is coming to Tanzania. (Their redundancy, not mine.)<br />The Embassy is in the process of preparing a program for said very important VIP.<br />I am not allowed to know who the VIP is or when the VIP might be coming.<br />This very important VIP is indeed very important.<br />I am not allowed to tell my colleagues about a very important VIP coming to Tanzania or that I/we might be somehow involved. If I do, we’re out.<br />If I lobby for this with anyone at the Embassy, we’re out.<br />And finally, I am requested to provide the Embassy with a write-up by the end of the day describing a site visit the very important VIP could make to our project that promotes faithfulness in marriage as a HIV prevention strategy called Sikia Kengele (listen to the bell).<br />And, oh yeah, there is a 99% chance that whatever I submit will not be selected for the very important VIP visit.<br /><br />At that moment I knew. George Bush was coming to Tanzania. Who else would be interested in our faithfulness initiative when we are doing such great work with sex workers and brothels?<br /><br />So I did my duty and submitted a write-up – but not talking about it was nearly impossible. Everyone in the American community – Embassy or not – had heard the gossip. In fact, I may have been the last to know. Whispered conversations over grocery carts and at the vegetable stand were abound. Did I know anything? They would trade me their info for my info. And much as I love to gossip – I think I did a pretty good job keeping my mouth shut – for me.<br /><br />A few days later I got another call to come into the Embassy. This time, the Embassy people were joined by HIV prevention partner agency heads like myself.<br /><br />“<em>Do you know who POTUS is?”</em> they asked.<br /><br />“<em>Of course</em>,” I said. “<em>I’m from Washington DC</em>.” (I didn’t want to tell them that the real reason I knew was because of the West Wing - President Of The United States)<br /><br />“<em>And do you know who FLOTUS is?”</em> they asked.<br /><br />“<em>Yes,”</em> I said. (First Lady Of The United States)<br /><br />“<em>Well</em>,” they expanded, “<em>we want you to rewrite your event for FLOTUS, not POTUS. And even though we don’t really have a natural place for your event, we want to try to link it with another event where FLOTUS will talk with 20 14-year-old Muslims graduating from a Madrassa HIV/AIDS education program</em>.”<br /><br />Right. Because there are close natural links between 14 year-old Madrassa students and a community mobilization initiative using bells as wake up calls to promote faithfulness in marriage. But true to the spirit of collaboration, I pitched this unnatural alliance from a lifecycle approach. We all knew it was bullshit. But we were trying hard.<br /><br />Then I was told again:<br /><br />Talk about this in public and it’s off.<br />Don’t tell your colleagues who the very important VIP is or it’s off.<br />The final decision belongs to FLOTUS’ people.<br />There is still a 99% chance this won’t happen.<br />Start to prepare.<br /><br />So I went back to my office and told my top team that there is a very important VIP coming to town and we’ve been asked to prepare a Kengele event. I told them:<br /><br />I can’t tell you who the person is.<br />I can’t tell you where the event is.<br />I can’t tell you what might be involved in the event.<br />I can’t tell you what days the event might occur (I still had no idea)<br />OK, let’s get started preparing…<br /><br />So we began to prepare.<br /><br />And in the preparation of an event that we had almost no information about, and for person whom my colleagues were totally in the dark, there was a level of exhilaration and novelty that was very exciting.<br /><br />We were among the chosen few.<br /><br />I was.<br /><br />I was among the few people in Dar just ever-so-slightly in the know. People asked me questions and I told them I wasn’t able to answer them. It was powerful. I felt strong and connected; part of a secret society.<br /><br />And I became invested – invested in making sure this thing happens. Invested in getting to meet Mrs. Bush. Invested in the 15 seconds of institutional fame that comes with having a President or his wife visit your project. Invested in having a project important enough to make the cut. And I even convinced myself that perhaps I would actually get a chance to meet the President himself.<br /><br />I was totally, completely invested. Obsessed even.<br /><br />And things were looking good. Slowly we had more information. I was allowed to tell my colleagues when and where the event would be. Every few days the Embassy people talked to the White House and planning continued.<br /><br />By this time, about 200 of the 600 members of the Bush delegation were already in Dar. The press corps was crawling around – all of them looking to film skeletal people dying from AIDS for their reels - because that's all they can relate to when they report about AIDS. The advance team Secret Service guys were dressed in everyday clothes – not the suits and earplugs we are used to seeing. Nevertheless, it is easy to tell who they were. They have crew cuts and a certain familiar cockiness and swagger that is hard to miss.<br /><br />My team and I were titillated. We were moving fast to print new t-shirts and banners for the event. We had a giant bell cast so that Mrs. Bush would have a fabulous photo-op ringing the bell of faithfulness. The Christian right would love it. At great expense I even had my mother DHL some new clothes to me since my wardrobe here is short on pantsuits a la Hillary Clinton. (Pantsuits or dresses are evidently the standard uniform for meeting Mrs. Bush, and I haven’t worn a dress in many, many years.)<br /><br />Several nights in a row I woke in the middle of the night, “practicing” what I would say during my five minutes of face-to-face time, when I would have to introduce myself and the Sikia Kengele initiative to Mrs. Bush before inviting her to ring the bell of faithfulness.<br /><br /><em>“Hello Mrs. Bush, my name is…”<br /><br />“Hello Mrs. Bush. Welcome to Tanzania. My name is…”<br /><br />“Mrs. Bush, it is an honor to meet you. My name is…”<br /></em><br />Over and over and over again. All night long.<br /><br />Then, last weekend I was at the playground with my kids, chatting with an Embassy friend. She told me on the sly that it wasn’t looking good for us. Mrs. Bush’s people (we were allowed to use her name now), were not convinced. Mrs. Bush prefers intimate events. Her people weren’t happy with the fact that our event required a small crowd, and the link between the Madrassa graduation and ringing of the bell of faithfulness was not particularly clear to them either.<br /><br />I was totally depressed. I wondered how I would be able to face my colleagues on Monday.<br /><br />So I was completely surprised on Monday morning when the call came for us to participate in a run-through with the Secret Service. An adorable guy from DC via Mississippi walked through the event with my team and the Embassy people. As we went along he pointed out where he would station his snipers, his anti-assault team, and his anti-terrorism team.<br /><br />Who knew a simple event required so many teams?<br /><br />But it was at this moment that I knew that our event was really going to happen. I couldn’t help it. I was ecstatic! My adrenaline has been pumping ever since.<br /><br />But my excitement begged the question, why?<br /><br />I can’t stand President Bush. I’ve never before had any desire to meet him. I once met his predecessor, President Clinton. And back in 1991 I stood on the White House lawn as part of a “welcoming” group when the first President Bush welcomed Japan’s president to the Rose Garden. But never, ever have I wanted to be in the presence of this current president, whose policies and actions (99% of them anyway) I’ve held with disdain for the past eight years.<br /><br />And before this opportunity I’ve never even given Mrs. Bush a thought. I have no opinion of her one way or other whatsoever.<br /><br />So why was I so invested?<br /><br />Well… the easiest answer is because I wanted to write you a fabulous blog post about the experience. That’s true. But it is also sort of a cop-out of a response.<br /><br />The next answer is uglier. Anyone who knows me knows that I like to be in the center of things. I love the excitement. I like the attention we are getting from my headquarters office in DC and from other colleagues here in Tanzania. I enjoy watching my colleagues and their excitement. I like the feeling of working with colleagues towards a common agenda. I like being part of an elite group. And even, somehow, I am enjoying a sense of patriotism that is buoyed by the fact that I do believe that the President’s HIV initiative has been one of the few things for which he deserves some credit.<br /><br />But also I want to look into this man’s eyes; my president’s eyes; and see what’s in there. I want to stand in his presence to see if I can see the good mixed in with all the ugly that comes to mind when I think about him under normal circumstances. After all, most people are complex. I want to believe that he is no exception. He may be ordering the bombing of Iraq by day, but is he a loving husband and supportive father by night? I want to know if I can see that part of him. I need to know. Somehow it has become important to me.<br />_____________________________________________<br /><br />On Wednesday afternoon I got the call. Our event, scheduled to take place on Sunday, was canceled.<br /><br />Mrs. Bush loves children. She wants to spend more time with the Madrassa children, leaving no time for ringing the bell of faithfulness. The Secret Service weren’t happy with her being outside, anyway. The White House press office was unsure of how photo-worthy newsreel of Mrs. Bush ringing the bell would be.<br /><br />But there was a small light at the end of the tunnel. Two colleagues and I were still invited to attend the event. At the end of the meeting with the children we could have a few minutes to meet Mrs. Bush.<br /><br />But then on Thursday morning the White House nixed that, too.<br />_____________________________________________<br />President and Mrs. Bush landed in Tanzania today.<br /><br />I won’t be meeting them.<br /><br />They won’t be ringing the bell of faithfulness.<br /><br />I won’t be sweating away under the unforgiving equator sun in 90 degree, 90% humidity weather in my new pantsuit a la Hillary.<br /><br />I’m no longer involved in the visit in any way, other than joining the masses who will suffer in the traffic jams that are sure to result.<br /><br />Sure, I am disappointed. But the good news is I’ve snapped out of my Pollyanna-like trance.<br /><br />I’m back to being my irreverent disdainful self. I remember now, I can’t stand President Bush or his policies.<br /><br />I’m back to being disenfranchised and mad.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167672203599876898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivO-yB6rgI4g95qcX4Rvlwli1eN_zXCh-Fa_W0a6xewfVH_EpCdvOQZVUIru5FyCnkcGJbMNKLVaiIWJCSHP7cD66L_61NTR2e0A45ev4ky0ppwNda5oa0OTD_pJ_nKZlaHz-ckw/s400/Laura+Bush+3.bmp" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>From Laura Bush's last trip to Tanznia a few years ago</em></p>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25139444.post-39100475698276230442008-02-04T23:02:00.000+03:002008-02-04T23:23:15.671+03:00So Close and Yet So Far<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KPDgZjQ90lkg_H5HTo7lBWTIoTsxp1u51N8ENtdj4_kL3iC_fGE1lrQx98nZlv4F-39b8zHyI7dFEfrlQ5-nmnAi45-8O77zRW9wNg6Bdr0TMjG1DlV5BXHGFcq5nOjfhzoOjg/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163223141672717794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="141" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KPDgZjQ90lkg_H5HTo7lBWTIoTsxp1u51N8ENtdj4_kL3iC_fGE1lrQx98nZlv4F-39b8zHyI7dFEfrlQ5-nmnAi45-8O77zRW9wNg6Bdr0TMjG1DlV5BXHGFcq5nOjfhzoOjg/s400/images.jpg" width="141" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div>During the past few weeks I’ve been getting messages from concerned friends and family asking if the kids and I are OK given what is going on in Kenya.<br /><br />In case you’ve somehow missed it (which, let’s admit, is easy to do in the US given our news networks’ proclivities against international stories that don’t involve the US going to war on false grounds)… the most recent elections in Kenya didn’t go so well. The incumbent won – but likely by nefarious means. And unlike the fraudulent elections in the US in 2000, the runner-up has not been inclined to drop his claims on the office for the sake of the nation. In Kenya, long standing ethnic and tribal issues (which were exacerbated by British colonial rule) have complicated the situation. There has been violence. Up to 1000 people have died in either clashes with the police or via small pockets of “ethnic cleansing” that bring chillingly scary flashbacks to Rwanda in 1994.<br /><br />This is scary shit. And it is happening just on the other side of the border from Tanzania.<br /><br />But just so you are all at ease… The Kenyan border is a good 10 hour drive north – and the problems are not happening all over Kenya – but in limited pockets. Since I’m a big fan of geography, I can make for you the analogy that it is like sitting in NY watching riots Ottawa, Canada. It is pretty far away and in another country to boot.<br /><br />Still… this is scary shit. And it is happening just on the other side of the border from Tanzania.<br />_____________________________________________________<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div>It has always bothered me when well-meaning folks, upon hearing that I’m living in Africa, say things like, “oh… that must be dangerous”, or “sounds unsafe”, or even worse, “hmm.. the dark continent, scary”. (Yes… more than one person has actually said that.)<br /><br />Poor Africa.<br /><br />Imagine the idea of a whole continent judged by the misfortune of sharing a land mass with a few rough places – like if we judged all of the United States by the violence and poverty of inner city New Orleans and Detroit. What about the beautiful savannahs? What about the jungles full of amazing creatures? What about all the wonderful people I’ve met in each of the sub-Saharan countries I’ve visited? (Eight so far!)<br /><br />Africa needs an image consultant.<br /><br />But Africa also needs some of our compassion and understanding. As a continent, it’s gotten a bum deal – what with all the colonial plunder of natural resources and mass murder perpetrated by the Belgians, British, French, Portuguese, Spaniards and others; and not to mention the slave trade to the Americas and to the Arabian peninsula, yada, yada, yada….<br />And then there is the shitty thing about how the beautiful forests and animals are also the source of deadly diseases like ebola, malaria, and maybe even HIV.<br /><br />Talk about being screwed from both ends.<br />______________________________________________________<br /><br />I started to write this post in response to good friend who sent an e-mail asking me to blog about what is happening in Kenya and my snotty – but intended to be humorous - response to her was… get a map.<br /><br />Tanzania is not in Kenya. Tanzania is not Kenya.<br /><br />I prepared my high horse (or is it my soap box?), ready to give you all (my readers) an education about how Tanzania was saved from much of the post colonial division that happened in other countries by a visionary first president, Julius Nyrere (look him up if you are a history or politics fan – he was a really interesting person and a national and regional hero) who decided to turn Tanzania towards a socialist, rather than Western, path and then worked to do away with tribalism by uniting Tanzanians under one language (Swahili) and one nation (Tanzania). As a result – the question of ethnicity or tribe is not part of the daily discourse here as it is in Kenya where Kikuyu help Kikuyu get ahead, and if you are Luo you definitely voted for the opposition. And today, even though the path is definitely back towards capitalism, the trick about uniting Tanzanians continues to stick. It makes Tanzania a very unique place.<br /><br />But there is also a list a mile long of things that are just the same here as they are in Kenya.<br /><br />Like crippling poverty<br /><br />Like disenfranchised youth<br /><br />Like the fact that death and sickness are as much a part of day-to-day life for most people here as Starbucks is to people who live in Seattle.<br /><br />I don’t mean to be crass… but it’s true. Whenever I forget, there is always something that reminds me. Like the day last month when the kids and I saw three dead bodies in less than 24 hours.<br /><br />Two of them were around the corner from my house. Two young men – security guards for the same security service I use - had been hit by an even younger man who was driving his new car drunk at 10 in the morning on Boxing Day. When the kids and I drove by the bodies were still in the street although they had been hit more than an hour previously. People were standing around them disinterestedly. The police were there just hanging out. There had been no attempt to get the guys to the hospital, no attempt to clear the scene or cover the bodies. They were just there in the road for the rest of us to drive around.<br />We saw the third guy the next morning on the highway as we drove west towards our vacation destination. Again it was a guy lying dead in the road. This time it was along a stretch of highway that was surrounded by savannah on both sides. There were two police officers standing over him – filling in a form, it seemed. No one else was around. It was unclear how he got there – although I imagine he was hit by a bus or fell off a truck. It was unceremonious. That’s how death often is around here.<br /><br />I actually have a million stories I could tell you – and it would be cathartic to spill them out – like how my friend’s security guard had his second baby in the past two years die from malaria over the weekend, or how another friend’s nanny died of AIDS in her backyard a few months ago. But I’m going to hold back. You get the idea – I think.<br /><br />But why am I sharing all this with you?<br /><br />It is because we need this lens in order to understand what is happening in Kenya. You need to know that death is always close here. That in many communities people are desperate for food or for power or to survive the week. And many – especially the youth - have no grander plans to look forward to. When you hear about people hacking each other to death with machetes in Kenya it is not enough to assume that the reasons why or the solutions are simple politics.<br /><br />Send in Kofi Annan and he can fix the situation, right?<br /><br />Don’t turn away from what is happening. Don’t turn off the news. Africa needs us to pay attention and to care.<br />_____________________________________________<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div>One month ago Kenya was one of the most prosperous and stable places on the continent. The ethnic politics made it different from Tanzania, but it was nevertheless growing and peaceful - just like here.<br /><br />Tanzania is not like Kenya, right?<br /><br />Or is the other side of the same coin?</div></div>Mahlers On Safarihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00030007623035197801noreply@blogger.com6