Mahlers on Safari

Spooky Beach

2010-11-08T14:47:00.016+03:00

If it is the weekend after Halloween, it must be time for the fourth annual Halloween-at-the-Beach extravaganza.

This year about 30 families (with 50+ kids) made the 90 minute schlep 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.

Traveler’s Lodge, 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.

So what does Halloween look like for this rag-tag group of international revelers?

Carve your own orb by the sea.

The local watermelons actually make great jack-o-lanterns – and are much easier for kids to carve than pumpkins. And like Jaden, you can eat as you carve.

Knock the hell out of a very solid parent-made (impressive) piñata.

Neither of my kids had much luck with the pinata.

Wear the vampire teeth and eat the Sweet Tarts brought to TZ from Target that were in the pinata.

Actually... with these vampire teeth maybe I won't have to spend a fortune on braces for Rowan after all.

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.

Jaden and Rowan in front of our banda with our watermelon.

Parents elaborately decorate their bandas and dress like goons, or worse.

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?

Kids trick or treat.

Jaden is just taking it all in...

We were lucky that there was a nice breeze the whole time, and so no cases of heat exhaustion this year.

The spirit of Michael Jackson joined us at the beach, too.

After the trick or treating the parents had their chance to drink and eat and be merry.

Zombies drinking.

While the kids reviewed and exchanged their booty, all while watching Scooby-Doo.

Lots of classic candy you can’t find in Tanzania. Good job to the parents to planned ahead!

Followed by a late night bonfire on the beach.

I was worried the trees would catch fire. But I’m a worry wart and a party pooper. So there!

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.

(And isn’t it amazing you can get marshmallows at all!)

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.

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.

This is how we do Halloween in Dar. Shall we save a banda for you next year?

(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.)

The Fantasy of Multiculturalism, Opium of the Expat Masses – As Seen Through the Eyes of Babes

2010-10-29T19:14:00.002+03:00

International Day at the IST

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.

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)?

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.

(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?)

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.)
They are surprisingly clear, on their future paths.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But back on the topic of multiculturalism, there is one more issue I want to address here.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

I wonder if Amazon.com sells books on Marxism for kids?

Unclogging the Drain

2010-10-28T09:58:00.002+03:00

Yes it has been almost a year since I last posted in this blog.

I’ve been blocked.

I’m not really sure why, either.

I’ve blamed it on Facebook. But that would be unfair to Facebook and a cop-out for me.

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.

I’ve blamed it on my last post which was a tour de force rant about fat discrimination (and as proven by the recent uproar over the Marie Claire fat-phobic blogger incident 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.

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.

So here I am. Karibu (again) to Mahlers on Safari.

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.

Living While Fat - An American Crime

2009-11-23T20:32:00.004+03:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

WTF?

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?

I hope those students sue the ass off that school. I will be the first in line to contribute to the legal fund.

And this leads me to ask, whatever happened to loving the sinner but hating the sin?

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.

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.

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.

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.

**** 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.

My Third Culture Kids

2009-11-03T21:08:00.004+03:00

Rowan in her Obama kanga

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.

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 Obamaians, and a scattering of cowboys and cowgirls (and even one Native American) was a joyful experience.

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).

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.

And since I’m so sappy, I fell for the beautiful One World image:

Living together in peace
Protecting the earth
Fighting against poverty and injustice
And beautiful babies and chirping birds, la de da de da…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 saris and salwar khamises. And perhaps the school could help get rid of the Britishisms that have sneaked into their daily language, like saying sitting room instead of living room, nappies instead of diapers, and pronouncing naughty like noughty. 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.

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.

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.

According to the bible of third culture kids: Third Culture Kids: The Experience of Growing Up Among Worlds by David C. Pollock and Ruth E. Van Reken,

“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.

“Two realities arch over TCK experience that shape their lives. These are:

1. Being raised in a genuinely cross-cultural world.
2. Being raised in a highly mobile world

“Other characteristics in common:

Distinct differences. Many TCKs are raised where being physically different from those around them is a major aspect of their identity.

Expected repatriation. Unlike immigrants, third culture families usually expect at some point to return permanently to live in their home country.

Privileged lifestyle. Historically TCKs are members of an elitist community – one with special privileges bestowed on its members.

System identity. Members of specific third culture communities may be more directly conscious than peers at home of representing something greater than themselves.

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.
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.

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.

And for the Sins of Disconnection…

2009-09-28T11:05:00.002+03:00

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.

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 schmo with average offenses.

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.

I'm feeling disconnected.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 only 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.)

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.

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.

And so this year, for the sins of disconnection…

Avenu Malkenu
(Our Father, Our King)
chaneinu vaneynu
(be gracious with us and answer us)
ki ain banu masim
(though we have no worthy deeds;)
Asay imanu sedaka vachesed
(treat us with charity and kindness,)
Vehoshiaynu
(and save/redem us.)

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 here.

Goat Races

2009-08-16T10:34:00.003+03:00

A flyer for the Dar es Salaam Charity Goat Races

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.

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.

(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.)

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 Ghost Races.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

And now… Goat Race victor!

P.S. I have no idea, and don’t want to know, what happens to the goat after the race.

America the Beautiful and Strange

2009-08-05T21:46:00.003+03:00

Rowan with Buzz Lightyear and Woody

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.

Allow me to share some of my reflections.

If you are going to have a big accident, it is better to do it in NY than Dar es Salaam

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 schmuk, 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.

Overall, I was a calmer, less frantic Hally

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 El Paso 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 schlep 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 Nestle's morsels, my bags were free from last minute supermarket shopping items. I didn’t even bring back bagels this time!

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?

I can’t help but feel – it is nicer to be back in America with Obama as President

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.

Disney World really is the happiest place on earth!

The very surprising highlight of our family trip home was the six days the kids and I spent with my brother and parents at Disney World. 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.

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.)

Americans are extremely nice but also very lazy – even by my standards

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. The customer service agent might be stupid, 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.

(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.)

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.

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.

And yes, America really does seems to be the fattest place on earth

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.

You knew this already, but as a country we are really really really geography deficient

I’ve written about this already. And like I said, you already knew it anyway.

Hey can you find Tanzania on a map (or at least come close)?

It was great to be back home in America

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.

It is great to be back home in Tanzania

‘Nuff said.

Speaking of Misconceptions About Africa

2009-06-29T19:38:00.002+03:00

True conversation with a Bank of America customer service representative just minutes ago...

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.

Service Rep: (With VERY strong southern accent) Now tell me, is it just beautiful over there?

Me: Parts of it sure are.

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.

Me: Uh…I don’t think you’ll find people running naked these days. In fact, they are probably better dressed than you.

Service Rep: (Confused hesitation) Well… my mother-in-law died a few months ago anyway.

Me: Well good. Then perhaps I can report the ATM fraud?

Survival Skills

2009-06-06T04:48:00.004+03:00

I am in the US on “home leave”.

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?”

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.

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).

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.

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.

But actually… perhaps I am really doing them a disservice? What do I really want them to believe about Africa and my life there?

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?

Even writing this makes me feel trite. It is the clash of my development guilt vs. my inner JAP.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

This is certainly nothing to be proud of. But it is how I have survived and thrived.

My house, not long after we moved in. It is nicely landscaped now.

Getting off my Butt - Trip to Iringa

2009-06-03T00:17:00.003+03:00

The Baobab Forest

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thanks to Iringa, now I remember.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Angels vs. Demons

2009-05-16T09:43:00.007+03:00

I had no idea that the existential struggle of good vs. evil began at age five.

Sure… I overheard, and sometimes participated in typical kid conversations about all sorts of interesting moral issues. Some examples include:

-Good genies vs. bad genies (depends on the color of the rug they are flying on, evidently);

-Superfriends vs. the Hall of Doom (had to correct the cartoon induced misunderstanding that ugly = evil);

-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);

And the ever popular:

- Why do we have so much money and other people don’t?

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.

So I was completely unprepared when Jaden and Rowan began to articulate their views about God and religion.

See, I am an atheist Jew. I don’t believe in God. But I believe in Jewish culture.

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.

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.

But the problem is the kids. What to teach the kids?

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.

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 Sedar or two and save up for the Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. 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 Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and the Prince of Egypt, and lighting candles and eating latkes at Chanukah. (Well… not only… but you get the drift.)

Rowan started the search for answers when, after watching the Prince of Egypt just before Passover 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?

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?

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.

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.

(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.)

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.

And this, my friends, was a big wake up call.

I tried the handy, “Well, we are Jews, and Jews believe…”

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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, kenahara.

Matzo ball soup from Passover

Top 10 Semi-Lame Excuses Why I Haven't Posted in Six Months

2009-05-12T00:34:00.004+03:00

10. I Have a New Job

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.

9. I Have a New Drug

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.

8. I Have a New Creative Outlet

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.

7. I Have a New (Old) Weekend Activity

For those of you who remember when my beloved Sea Cliff Hotel burned down… 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.

6. I Have a New House

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.

5. I Have a Newfound (Unfortunate) Love for the TV

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!

4. My Kids Have More Interesting Social Lives than Me

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!

3. I Have a New Love of Parenting

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.

2. This Blog Was the Victim of Antisemitic Hate Mail

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.

1. I Haven’t Had Much Need or Ability to Procrastinate

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?

44

2008-11-05T16:21:00.004+03:00

A billboard in Kisumu, Kenya - as if

Obama has been running for president there!

Wow.

I am exhausted.

I am exhausted from caring so much about this year’s presidential election.

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 naysayers – who may have had their points – but we (my computer and I) decided long ago to only live in positive lala land.

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…. Dear Hally. Let’s make history together…) for ever more and more money.

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.)

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.

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 kanga (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.

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)).

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.

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 Luo become President. (Because the Luo – the tribe that Obama’s father comes from – is politically marginalized in Kenya – and the idea of a Luo President is unfathomable for many people. Nevertheless, Kenya has declared tomorrow a national holiday.)

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 CNN and Al Jazzera 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.

And then, around 7 AM this morning, East African Time, Barack Hussein Obama was declared the President-Elect of the United States.

Today, I’m exhausted, but ecstatic.

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.

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.

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.

Today I have faith – and lots of it. I feel so proud.

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.

Hoping for Nirvana

2008-10-07T21:48:00.005+03:00

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,

“I’m here to vote!”

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.

There was something about actually writing the names…

Barack Obama/Joseph Biden

AND

Nita Lowey (my district’s fabulous liberal Congresswoman)

… that was whole-body satisfying – especially after 20 years of voting in DC where I suffered from a severe case of taxation without representation.

__________________________________

The past few weeks have been rather exciting for American political junkies in Tanzania.

Firstly… all my morose friends who have been predicting another four years of doom and gloom (“I don’t think Obama can pull this off.") (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.

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.

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 The L Word or Will and Grace) meets scary over-the-top commercials about how to avoid a terrorist attack by staying under the radar when leaving your home. My favorite spot features a guy and his buddy just back from over there (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.

Precious, yeah?

But the reason I’m telling you this is because AFN has a “news” channel that is switched by the big satellite man in the sky 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).

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.
_________________________________________________________

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).

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.
______________________________________________

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?)

OK… I’m waxing poetic, or perhaps even pathetic. But it can’t hurt a girl to dream, can it?
I’ve got my eyes on a big win on November 4th. I can’t wait to feel the joy

Rosh Ha Shenanigans

2008-10-07T21:45:00.002+03:00

Shmuli with Jaden and Rowan

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.

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.

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 mazel tov on my new job – but failed to mention that he was about to get on a plane.

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.

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.

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.

With this positive experience behind us, I returned to Nargila the next day for a Rosh Hashanah services.

Just like last year – it was touch and go for more than an hour on whether or not we would have a minyon. We had plenty of women (my friend, Laura and myself included)… but the men were only trickling in.

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.

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:

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.

Ba-da bum…

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.

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.

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):

“Lucky I’m allowed to cook, thanks God. They spent the whole day standing over me like the police.”

“All my life I count – except when these nudnicks come to Tanzania”

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.

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.

Lame, huh?

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.

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.

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.

Stay tuned here for the answer…. Yom Kippur is around the corner.

Eliza (and Kelly)

2008-07-10T17:16:00.007+03:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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.

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.

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…

Oy vey, another famous artist on a fact-finding tour. This is just the thing that Africa needs.

Not.

Or maybe…

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.

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.

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.

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. .

Kelly is beautiful on the outside, and she seems to be pretty lovely on the inside, too – just like Eliza.

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.

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.

Got hope?

I do.

(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!)

Banking on Obama

2008-07-02T20:28:00.004+03:00

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.

As Dr. Stroll, my European History professor in Paris, used to say, “Kid, the “what ifs” of history – they just don’t count.”

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 (and don’t gender bait me – I think that is sort of sweet), 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.

I was totally inspired.

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?

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.

But when the Obama for America 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 contribute button.

It didn’t go through.

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.

This time it went through. But my Obama frenzy wasn’t over – not yet.

How could I donate all that money but not own any Obama paraphernalia? So I went to the Shop for Obama 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.

Lo and behold, they went all the way up to size 4X!

Now I was really enraptured. Obama loves fat people, too!!!!

Obama’s my man!

I bought two.

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 “kids Obama t-shirts” and came up with a site that carried 17,700 different designs!!! 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 “purchase items” button.

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.

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…

… I had donated $2000 to the Obama campaign.

Shit. I guess that that first time I pressed donate 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.

On the other hand, $2000 is really more than I can afford right now.

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)?

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.

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.

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.

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 donate 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.

“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….”

“Sure,” I said uneasily, wondering what the catch-22 would be for getting the money back before the dispute is actually resolved.

“And ma’am,” said the customer service rep. (I was ready to hear the catch.)

“Yes,” I said.

“Thank you so very much for your really generous donation to the Obama campaign. I think that is just really wonderful of you.”

I was thrown off…

“You’re welcome, I guess,” I responded. “I suppose I am just doing it for myself.”

“You are doing it for all of us,” she said. “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.”

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 Obama for America 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.

Hiatus Interruptus

2008-07-02T18:24:00.001+03:00

Yes, it has been awhile since I last wrote a blog post. More than two months, actually.

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.

I wasn’t feeling burnt out.

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.

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.

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.

So then, are the kids and I still on safari? Or are we just living our lives the same as we would anywhere?

To tell the truth, I’m not really sure.

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.

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.

And oh… I’m really really upset that I haven’t yet been able to see the Sex and the City 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 Eyes and Hair in the City.

But alas, these are the sacrifices we make.

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.

Happy reading.

The Boys (of Chabad) are Back in Town

2008-04-21T14:34:00.002+03:00

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!

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

(Meyer came with another smaller, quieter rabbi, but so overshadowed was he that none of us can even remember his name.)

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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!"

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.

What the Fuck Have I Done? Two Years On.

2008-03-31T22:06:00.018+03:00

Jaden and Rowan then and now...

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.

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.

Holy crap, it was a big decision.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I’m not a religious person, but I feel blessed - or whatever the agnostic version of being blessed happens to be.

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

So in celebration of my two year blog anniversary I’ve done two things.

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.

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.

And before I end, I need to give my annual shout-out to Liz (a.k.a. Mom-101), 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.

Asante sana for sticking with me, and happy reading.

The Original Post

What the Fuck Have I Done?
March 2006

Posts About the Expat Life

Happy 8th of July
July 2006
Sometimes “Progress” is Assbackwards
October 2006
Abode of Peace or Port Charles
October 2006
When the Rest of the World Rejoices
November 2006
The Education of Hally Mahler
December 2006
Something Stinks in Here
December 2006
Hot Stuff
Feb 2007
What the Fuck Have I Done – One Year Later
March 2007
The Nanny Diaries
May 2007
Swahili School Drop Out
May 2007
Rocket’s Red Glare
July 2007
Not So Faithful
July 2007
A Member of the Club
October 2007
A Member of the Club, Part II. The Insurgency
December 2007
A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two Bushes
February 2008

Posts About Being Jewish in Africa

When You Are the Only Jew for Miles Around
June 2006
Wherever there is Coca-Cola there Are Jews
August 2006
Dayanu
April 2007
Smuli’s Big Yom Kippur Adventure
September 2007

Posts About Parenting But Still Being Myself

Mama Wa Wili and the Battle for Independent Hally
August 2006
Daddy
January 2007
Tick Tock – Time to Close Up Shop
December 2007

Posts About Travel

The Old Me (Except the Old Me Didn't Come with All this Guilt)
October 2007
Seven Hours in Lagos
November 2007

Other Topics

The Club Formally Known as Book
April 2007

There Are Gays in Iran!

2008-03-10T23:02:00.009+03:00

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.

The scene was pristine. Just David, me, the cloudless sky and the rolling sands dunes…

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.

Laurence of Arabia, we were not.

This is what they call a desert safari. I wouldn’t exactly call it fun, or even exciting, but it was indeed unique. Well… unique and cheesy as hell.

Dubai is a common “get out of dodge” destination stop for those of us living in Dar. It is a bizarro 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 Mumbai, India.

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.

“What do you think Dubai will be like?” I challenged her.

“Las Vegas,” she replied.

“Well… do you think that David and I would stand out in Las Vegas?” I wondered.

Touché!

It turns out my mother was right about one thing… Dubai most resembles Las Vegas in that everything is big, glizy, 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.

In so many ways Dubai is the city of the future. It is something massive built out of nothing. A place where (I’ve 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.

Let me just tell you… it was heaven on earth for a frustrated shopper living in Tanzania.

Alas, my credit card bill can testify to the reason why they call the place “Do Buy”.

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 couldn’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 didn’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 kiddy area.

I don’t even have the words to explain this engineering marvel. It left me speechless.

Of course the best part of the trip was catching up with David – who I hadn’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-Emiratis 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’ve known each other and the answer was one year longer than he is old.

That part wasn’t so fun.

On our last day together we did the desert safari, knowing that it would be touristy, but wanting to experience the desert together, nevertheless.

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 couldn’t quite place the language that everyone else in the car spoke. I didn’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.

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 wasn’t alone… the rest of our temporary Bedouin friends were also Iranian. Go figure.

The squeal of David’s and my gaydar was practically audible. Was this guy gay?

Well… if you believe Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of course he wasn’t. There are no gays in Iran.

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 Terhan, watched some belly dancing, and ate a fabulous barbecue… all with a fat Jew and a gay American.

But he doesn’t have to worry about us letting his secret out. We got him covered.

I can't tell you what happens in Tehran. But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

David and I in the desert

Leaving my footprint on the Arabian Peninsula

Riding across the desert at every angle

Belly dancing

Ski Dubai

Welcome to the Potty Zone

2008-02-22T14:37:00.003+03:00

Jaden: [With a glint in his eye] Mommy, what do you want on your pizza, poo poo or pee pee?

Rowan: [Very serious] Mommy likes pee pee.

Jaden: [Big smile] No, Mommy wants poo poo!

Me: [Exacerbated] Do I have to have one or the other? Can’t I just have a plain margarita pizza?

Welcome to Hally’s wonderful world of four year-old twins!

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.

This Mama Wa Wili is knee deep in shit.

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.

Jaden: There is poo poo by that tree!

Rowan: No, there is pee pee by that tree!

Jaden: You are pee pee, Rowan.

Rowan: No, you are poo poo, Jaden, and that’s not a tree. Its a forest.

Me: Hey you guys, if poo poo falls in the forest and no one hears it will it make a noise?

Jaden and Rowan: [Together] Mommy’s poo poo!

They’re right, of course. It was crap to even attempt it.

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.

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.

Here, when anything bad happens, if someone is sick, or even if someone misses a bus, we say in Swahili, pole sana, meaning so sorry. You can also just say pole (sorry) for short. Naturally, we were pole sanaing Margaret all day yesterday until Jaden decided to pole poo poo instead – roughly sorry for your shit. 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.

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?

Should I encourage them to stop?

Should I let them talk poo poo and pee pee but not get involved myself?

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?

OK… perhaps that’s taking it too far.

I don’t want you to accuse me of being full of shit.

The culprits.

A Bird in the Hand IS Worth Two Bushes

2008-02-16T23:04:00.005+03:00

The madness started on Christmas Eve when I overheard a whispered conversation between two friends who work for the US Embassy in Dar.

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.

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…

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] So, I hear you got stuck with the initial planning?

Person 2: [Almost spitting] Yeah. These VIP trips are all-consuming. My life is going to be crazy for the next few months.

Person 1: Are you kidding? Everyone’s lives are going to be crazy. Watch out Dar es Salaam…

Being the indiscrete gossip hoarder that I am, I jumped out from the shadows, to ask:

Me: [Excitedly] Yeah? So who exactly is coming??? Bono? Dick Cheney? Bill Clinton?

Person 1: [Rolling her eyes at me for my lack of discretion] 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.

Me: Because if it’s Bono I have some brothels I want to take him to see.

Persons 1 and 2: [Eyes rolling] You and your brothels!

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.

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.

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.

They told me:

A very important VIP is coming to Tanzania. (Their redundancy, not mine.)
The Embassy is in the process of preparing a program for said very important VIP.
I am not allowed to know who the VIP is or when the VIP might be coming.
This very important VIP is indeed very important.
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.
If I lobby for this with anyone at the Embassy, we’re out.
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).
And, oh yeah, there is a 99% chance that whatever I submit will not be selected for the very important VIP visit.

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?

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.

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.

“Do you know who POTUS is?” they asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m from Washington DC.” (I didn’t want to tell them that the real reason I knew was because of the West Wing - President Of The United States)

“And do you know who FLOTUS is?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said. (First Lady Of The United States)

“Well,” they expanded, “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.”

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.

Then I was told again:

Talk about this in public and it’s off.
Don’t tell your colleagues who the very important VIP is or it’s off.
The final decision belongs to FLOTUS’ people.
There is still a 99% chance this won’t happen.
Start to prepare.

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:

I can’t tell you who the person is.
I can’t tell you where the event is.
I can’t tell you what might be involved in the event.
I can’t tell you what days the event might occur (I still had no idea)
OK, let’s get started preparing…

So we began to prepare.

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.

We were among the chosen few.

I was.

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.

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.

I was totally, completely invested. Obsessed even.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

“Hello Mrs. Bush, my name is…”

“Hello Mrs. Bush. Welcome to Tanzania. My name is…”

“Mrs. Bush, it is an honor to meet you. My name is…”

Over and over and over again. All night long.

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.

I was totally depressed. I wondered how I would be able to face my colleagues on Monday.

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.

Who knew a simple event required so many teams?

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.

But my excitement begged the question, why?

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.

And before this opportunity I’ve never even given Mrs. Bush a thought. I have no opinion of her one way or other whatsoever.

So why was I so invested?

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.

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.

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.
_____________________________________________

On Wednesday afternoon I got the call. Our event, scheduled to take place on Sunday, was canceled.

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.

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.

But then on Thursday morning the White House nixed that, too.
_____________________________________________
President and Mrs. Bush landed in Tanzania today.

I won’t be meeting them.

They won’t be ringing the bell of faithfulness.

I won’t be sweating away under the unforgiving equator sun in 90 degree, 90% humidity weather in my new pantsuit a la Hillary.

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.

Sure, I am disappointed. But the good news is I’ve snapped out of my Pollyanna-like trance.

I’m back to being my irreverent disdainful self. I remember now, I can’t stand President Bush or his policies.

I’m back to being disenfranchised and mad.

From Laura Bush's last trip to Tanznia a few years ago

So Close and Yet So Far

2008-02-04T23:02:00.000+03:00

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.

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.

This is scary shit. And it is happening just on the other side of the border from Tanzania.

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.

Still… this is scary shit. And it is happening just on the other side of the border from Tanzania.
_____________________________________________________

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.)

Poor Africa.

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!)

Africa needs an image consultant.

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….
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.

Talk about being screwed from both ends.
______________________________________________________

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.

Tanzania is not in Kenya. Tanzania is not Kenya.

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.

But there is also a list a mile long of things that are just the same here as they are in Kenya.

Like crippling poverty

Like disenfranchised youth

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

But why am I sharing all this with you?

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.

Send in Kofi Annan and he can fix the situation, right?

Don’t turn away from what is happening. Don’t turn off the news. Africa needs us to pay attention and to care.
_____________________________________________

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.

Tanzania is not like Kenya, right?

Or is the other side of the same coin?

Tick Tock - Time to Close Up Shop

2007-12-22T10:45:00.000+03:00

With less than a month to go before the big 4-0 I’ve been waiting with anticipation for some sort of existential (or perhaps even more real) crisis to wash over me. After all, the milestone of turning 40 does have some pretty heavy baggage that comes with it. In 26 days I’ll be officially over the hill, past my prime, closer to being an old hag than I am to my fabulous teenage years roaming the halls of Mamaroneck High School.

And let’s face it, the only thing that is stopping me from being one of those sad women in an urban apartment, all alone and with too many cats (I already had two in my 20s, which usually doesn’t bode well for the future), is that five years ago I made the controversial, difficult, and (looking back) perhaps even bold decision to go it alone and procreate.

And now I have Jaden and Rowan, turning 4 in 17 days. Some might still call me a woman “alone” (since I have no partner), but instead of heading towards hagdom, I’m enjoying the life of an international soccer mom (yes it is possible to be a soccer mom even in Tanzania.) chaperoning the kids to play-dates and swim lessons, and going on a weekly outing to the noisy and annoying “kids” restaurant with a play area, face painting, and really mediocre food, just because they love it so much.

During the past year I’ve been having that internal (infernal?) conversation that many women who’ve gone before me have had. Am I going to stop at two? Although I know that there are magical hormonal changes going on inside of me, I am fool enough to believe that the reproductive bits and pieces are still in working order and at 39 years and 339 days I likely have some small bit of fertility left, a few eggs in good condition, a uterus that still does it’s monthly duty, enough estrogen and progesterone to make the magic happen perhaps just one more time…

Luckily, I still have several vials of Jaden and Rowan’s donor sitting in cold storage back in Washington, DC. And I do think that they are just the neatest kids – so why wouldn’t I want some more just like them? Hell, I live overseas where there is an infinite supply of affordable human help to do just about anything you can possibly imagine. If I wanted I could have day nurses, night nurses, wet nurses, midwives, housekeepers, etc. I could have another kid under the best of circumstances you could ever find a single gal in. It would be so easy compared to the last time. And I would have a cuddly widdle baby to love, and he/she would love me, and we would live happily ever after…

Whoosh. This is the point in the movie where the girl wakes up in her own bed, startled. Clearly the last few minutes of magical fantasy have been a dream.

Back in the real world college costs $40,000/year per kid (unless I manage to finagle a job with the UN, which pays for college), preschool even runs $4,000/year per kid in Tanzania, and all of a sudden I’m remembering how much I struggled the first two years with Jaden and Rowan. Now that I think about it, I was pretty miserable during my pregnancy, too. And OMG, what if I got pregnant with twins again? Four year olds are awesome. Four kids, not so much. Besides, eventually I’ll move back to the US where being a single mother by choice of three or more kids would really make me freaky.

Recently a friend told me that 50 is the new 40. I suppose that may be true for guys, but for us gals we have this ticking biological clock which gets louder and louder until about 42 when the chances of being able to have a biological child of our own pretty much ends abruptly. (Don’t be fooled into complacency by all those women having children older than 43, 95% of them are using donor eggs.) I look around me at my friends who want to, but haven’t taken the reproductive plunge yet, and I feel their pain. I want to stand on my soapbox and tell them that they, too, can go it alone. They don’t have to wait for a partner to produce. Better yet, they can join me overseas and find heaven on earth for the single mom.

Five years ago I knew that and that and made the decision to not take a chance in the fertility sweepstakes and go it alone. Lots of people thought I was nuts. When I finally got pregnant I thought I was nuts, too. But I’ve decided that my 40th birthday is my payout for all the stress and second guessing. I’m actually looking forward to it. I plan to be 40 and fabulous and I’m currently planning a big blow out party in a fun new restaurant featuring Jamaican food (lobster patties, my favorite), 80s music, and the many wonderful friends I’ve met since I moved to Tanzania, and some who even came here with me. Jaden and Rowan will help me celebrate my birthday, but the party is for adults only because nurturing the un-mom part of Hally remains an important part of maintaining my identity – of being 40 and fabulous both with kids and without.

This morning I woke up with a whoosh and a start and sat up straight in bed. I was literally dreaming about clocks, and the ticking was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think anymore. My subconscious was reminding me that it is time to make a decision – take the plunge or empty the pool.

So with 40 looming, and parenthood being a lovely extension of the real Hally but not the entirety of Hally, I am taking the executive decision to shut off my biological clock. I’m removing the batteries. The ticking has stopped.

There will be no third kid. Time’s up.

The heros of my 40th birthday.

A Member of the Club, Part II. The Insurgency.

2007-12-22T10:28:00.000+03:00

Jaden enjoying a Friday evening at the Yacht Club

Well it is now official. On December 5th, in front of friends, my sponsor, and God, I became an official member of the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club.

Since I wrote you last about my post-Sea Cliff fire depression, the kids and I have been enjoying the benefits of temporary membership – meaning that we could enjoy the place without the guilt and scorn of certain friends (who shall remain nameless, but you know who you are) since we weren’t yet “official members”. We’ve been using the beach, playing in the playground, and enjoying the best pizza in Dar washed down with a beer on water’s edge as the sun sets across the bay.

Almost every Friday in the early evening we’ve been gathering with friends, the other “outsiders” who don’t quite fit the traditional Yacht Club membership profile. We are single parents, crunchy-granola types, people of color, Jewish, lesbians, and oftentimes not nearly as pretty as the other members on the bar patio. Most of us don’t sail. We are there for the beach and now for the company of each other. We have a lot of fun, drinking and eating the Friday-night barbeque, with our kids swarming all around us. Each of us fights the nagging guilt of being members of the Club. But when you look out over the sea, and the breeze actually causes tingly goose pimples at a time when Dar es Salaam is so hot you feel like a lit wax candle, all the guilt is assuaged and we manage to just enjoy.

Temporary membership was great and mostly guilt-free, but then the inevitable letter inviting me to the official membership induction ceremony arrived. I was directed to the bank where I was to deposit $1000 in cash in the Yacht Club’s account for the privilege of membership. I was ordered to get a sponsor and a spare to state on the membership form that should I default on my debts to the club that they would be financially responsible. Then I was forced to spend one of my precious Friday evenings walking around the bar patio trying to locate three committee members to sign on the form that they had “met” me. (Well… if “meeting” me involves someone not even asking my name but drunkenly grabbing the form and signing it in the wrong place… well, ok.)

So, on the 5th I showed up at the Yacht Club, as ordered, with my main sponsor in tow. To my happy surprise a lot of my friends were joining at the same time. After about an hour in the bar we were directed to a space where the meeting “officially” began. One-by-one the committee members stood and told us about all the ways in which we could get fined. The boat master told us that if we need to be rescued he will fine us; the beach master told us that if we drive down to the beach he will fine us; and the dive master told us that if we do unauthorized dives and he finds out about it he will fine us. It was like Catholic reform school without the habits. Warm and fuzzy.

When it came time to give out the official membership cards I expected there to be some sort of formal ceremony. Why else would they insist that you bring your sponsor and go through so much pomp and circumstance?

I expected something like this:

Quatermaster: Please rise, Hally Mahler.

Hally: (rises)

Quartermaster: Who brings this woman forth for membership into our revered institution, the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club?

Sponsor: (stands) I do.

Quartermaster: And do you attest, under oath, that Ms. Mahler is Yacht Club-worthy? Will she uphold the laws and obligations of Yacht Club membership?

Sponsor: I believe she will, sir.

Quatermaster: (turning towards Hally) Ms. Mahler, do you accept all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of membership to the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club? Will you do your part in maintaining the premises and keeping out the riff raff?

Hally: I will sir. Sort of. Sir, before I become a member, I’d just like to put in a plug for more diversity at the Club. You see, sir, I think the club would have a much better image in this day and age if we actively recruited a variety of…

Quatermaster: (outraged) Silence! (pause) Do you accept all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of membership to the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club?

Hally: (meekly) Yes…

Quatermaster: Ms Mahler, you are one of us now. Congratulations.

Hally (sounding resigned) Yes sir. Thank you sir.

In reality, they called my name, I went up the head table, and they gave me my new card, which is now “permanent member” white, instead of “temporary member” green. And I have no idea why I was required to bring my sponsor. Perhaps it was so the bar could make a little bit of extra money that night?

Now that Jaden, Rowan and I are officially members I’ve been taking a bit more flak, but I’ve also finally read the rules. No one can be denied membership with a proper sponsor, and people born in Tanzania can become members at half price. Every time I meet someone who would normally not fit into the Yacht Club mold I give them a hard sell to try to convince them to join. The more of us misfits that join, the more enjoyable the club will be.

This is my mission (I choose to accept it). It will be a peaceful revolution. Change from within. I’ve decided that what the Yacht Club needs for me to feel more comfortable is more people like me, more diveristy, and I will do my part in recruiting it. I could stand outside, refuse to join, be deprived of the beauty and amenities that it offers, and complain loudly. But instead I’m calling up all the Tanzanian-born, black, Jewish, ex-Peace Corps, outsider, lesbians I know and giving them the sales pitch. Come join the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club. You will be welcomed here.

(Editors Note: In defense of the Yacht Club, I just want to say that although the place is pretty homogenous in terms of its membership, I’ve never actually encountered any outright elitism or racism among the staff, officers or members. It is rather the reputation of the place that spurs me on to write these posts. I assume that you will take this post with the humor with which it was conceived.)

South Africa Sweet and Sour

2007-12-22T10:20:00.000+03:00

Over Thanksgiving weekend I traveled to South Africa to participate in the fabulous wedding celebration of my friends, Damon and Kent.

In the US gay weddings are becoming rather commonplace, even if they are not recognized in but a small handful of states. But not too many people in the US combine safari, petting lions, and a legal wedding in an apartheid-era women’s prison to such wonderful effect.

Kent and Damon are Americans who have been living in South Africa for about four years. Kent is white, Damon is African-American. Kent is from the North/Midwest, Damon is from Philadelphia. They have been married in practice for more than 12 years, but since they live in South Africa where since last year gay weddings became officially and constitutionally recognized, they decided to go for it and have a big extravaganza weekend.

I was just one of 30+ people who traveled from “overseas” to bear witness to the occasion. And I think that the novelty of a legal wedding is part of what drew so many people from the US to the event (in addition to the large and active Kent and Damon fan club). It was pretty amazing to watch two beloved gay friends legally “tie the knot” in a venue where a little more than 10 years ago the women freedom fighters of South Africa were held in chains, their freedom repressed.

A big theme of the weekend was the contradictions of “new South Africa”. On one hand, I spent most of my downtime roaming fabulous shopping malls and feeling like I was back in an alternative version of the US where everything costs (just slightly) less and shopkeepers have the most lovely accents. I stayed with my friend, Michelle, who lives in the carriage house of a most amazing property in the wealthiest part of town – complete with Italian renaissance-style terraced garden. We ate Thai food and sushi, visited a park where you can pet the baby lions, and took a mini-safari about an hour north of town. It was lovely.

The other side, of course, is the crime that Johannesburg has become so famous for – shoot first, ask questions later – rape – anger. Of course, this is the evitable result of decades of oppression and economic injustice. But from the outside it seems that it could be the downfall of a country that has so much going for it.

And then there is Jacob Zuma. Even two months ago he was all the talk of the town, and in the last week he was elected to lead the ANC which makes him the likely next president. I don’t pretend to know much about South African politics. But I can tell you that it is never ideal to have a man who has been accused (multiple times) of corruption take the helm of your country. But even worse than that, this is a man who during his trial for rape (accused of raping the underage daughter of a friend) stated that he didn’t use a condom during the act (which he said was consensual) because he wasn’t worried about HIV since he took a shower right after.

At the time he was a leader of the national HIV/AIDS program.

But the promises of Nelson Mandela and the potential of the new South Africa were all that was on the guests’ minds as we gathered in the rotunda of the old prison in the late afternoon that Saturday. Beams of light came through the high windows illuminating the 160 guests – the most diverse group of people I’ve ever seen in one place – half white, half black; half male, half female; half gay, half straight; half American, half not. Kent and Damon planned to walk down the aisle to a Frank Sinatra-type tune, but as soon as the South Africans spotted them down the path outside the hall they broke spontaneously into the most beautiful song. I don’t know which African language they were singing in, and I don’t know what the words meant, but it was the most harmonious, beautiful, and celebratory song I’ve ever heard. It made me cry. (And I don’t usually cry at these things.) It was incredible.

During the ceremony Kent and Damon accepted marriage advice from their “elders”, and prayers to their ancestors for a happy life together were said in the 10 languages of various participants. At the end of the ceremony they jumped over a broom, an African-America tradition; and then had guests pour water over their hands, a Thai wedding tradition (Kent was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Thailand). Straying from the confines of a traditional marriage ceremony, it was a lovely tribute to their life together so far, the life ahead of them, and the things and people most important to them.

Later as I sat at my table in the courtyard of the former women’s prison I watched a full moon rise above the walls of the building that once caused so many patriots much pain. Under that bright moon, Kent and Damon danced as if gay marriage was a right that everyone around the world could enjoy, diversity reigned, and the new South Africa shone.

The grooms

Seven Hours in Lagos

2007-11-01T22:48:00.000+03:00

Written in real time…

Hour One – 5:30 AM

Shit. My plane from Dakar, Senegal lands in Lagos, Nigeria at 5:30 AM. One hour early. Meaning that the already seemingly humongous transfer wait time of six hours is now seven.

I approach the Virgin Nigeria Airlines transfer desk and tell them that I am supposed to get on a Kenya Airways flight to Nairobi at noon. They laugh when I tell them I just want to go to the Business Class Lounge and wait until the Kenya Airways check-in counter opens. No, they say. Even though I don’t have a visa, I have to go through immigration and an official will escort me to a holding area where I can wait until 10 AM when the Kenya desk should open. An immigration official collects me at the trarnsfer desk.

The first immigration official passes me to another, who passes me to yet another. They can’t seem to decide who should escort me. Finally they assign a rather older (I’d say in his late 50s) immigration officer to me. He seems nice, but takes my passport, tells me to collect my bag, and walks away. Wait, I tell him. I checked my bag all the way through to Dar es Salaam! He laughs and tells me I should sit on a bench in the baggage area and wait for my bag.

After 30 minutes my bag does indeed emerge from the broken-down luggage carousal. The fact that it was marked PRIORITY on a big sticker the airline put on my bag doesn’t seem to have affected its priority compared to other bags on my flight as it ends up being the very last one out. The fact that it was ticketed all the way to Dar clearly has no meaning either. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for my immigration guy, Ekong, who insisted that I wait. Except that now he is nowhere to be seen.

I take advantage of the momentary lull to go to the ladies room. I’ve finally learned to pee standing up – at the ripe old age of 40. I’m happy to practice my new skill in the smelly, dirty bathroom. The bathroom cleaner asks for money. I tell her I don’t have any. She isn’t very happy with me. But then again, she isn’t a very good cleaner.

Back out by the luggage carousal, with my big red bag in hand, I wait some more. Lots of scenarios go through my head – mainly having to do with having to talk my way out of paying a bribe to get put through to the other side. Just when I get desperate Ekong reappears. He whisks me through customs, carries my very heavy red bag up two flights of stairs, and brings me to the immigration office at the check-in area.

Hour Two – 6:30 AM

In the immigration office I am greeted by a series of caricatures. The office is small but orderly, and the super sexy lady/official who runs it has her hold on all the men swarming around her. There are several posters telling immigration officials not to take bribes and a few targeted at clients, like me, telling me not to pay bribes.

Ekong sits down with my passport to fill in a log book. More guys come in. A youngish one is wearing a 50cent sweatshirt and 50cent is outlined in rhinestones. Other guys come and go. Two of them are friendly and talk with me while I wait. They both, separately, ask me if I’d like to marry a Nigerian man. To make things easier I tell them that I am already married and I tell them I have four-year old twins. It doesn’t stop one of them from asking me again if I’d like a Nigerian boyfriend. The sexy lady tells him I’m married and he should leave me alone. Besides, she says, Nigerian men stink as boyfriends. I catch Ekong taking a second look at the immigration form I filled in which says that I am single. He looks back at me and winks.

Finally Ekong is done with me. He tells me to go with another guy through security and I can wait in the main passenger lounge until 10 AM. I try to tell him that I should go to the Business Class Lounge but he refuses, very nicely, to let me go there. The immigration office keeps my passport and my big red bag. I ask them for a receipt and they laugh. Go to the lounge, they say, the bag and my passport will be waiting for me at 10. I keep waiting for someone to ask for a bribe, but they don’t.

I walk into the lounge and realize that this is a perfect blog post. I open my computer and start writing.

About five minutes later Ekong comes over. I think he has come to ask for money for helping me. I am prepared to give him some, since he was very nice, but he doesn’t ask. He just says he has come to make sure I am comfortable. I am, I tell him. He says wonderful and goodbye and walks off.

Five minutes later I am still writing this post. A young man comes over to me. He says he is sorry for disturbing me, but he is a young man from West Africa and would like to know if I have dollars I can give or trade with him. I tell him I live in Tanzania and don’t have any dollars on me (a lie – about the dollars). He tells me that Jesus loves me and walks away – a pray-and-run. I hate that! But at least he didn’t linger.

I marvel at how much fodder is coming to me for this post. It won’t be hard to write at all. The truth is more interesting than any fiction could be.

Five minutes later the immigration official who brought me through security walks over. He tries to read my computer (this post) over my shoulder and asks me what I’m working on. A trip report, I tell him. It is sort of true. He lingers and I wait for a request for a bribe. But he just says that he has come to check on me and eventually walks off.

Hour Three – 7:30 AM

I think I am getting a cold so decide to lie down on the chairs for a few minutes. Luckily, they are not too uncomfortable. I’ve been up all night. I hate that. But even though it is only 7:30 AM in Lagos, it is 9:30 AM in Dar es Salaam – or so says my computer which is set to Dar time. I can’t wait to get home to my babies.

OK… so it turns out that the chairs are really uncomfortable. And it is cold in the passenger area – or is it just that I’m catching a cold. I put on my wrap, but I’m still cold.

While I’m lying cold on the bench I reflect on the fact that I’m just a spoiled traveler – not used to inconveniences like lying on a cold bench in the general passenger area. I can’t help but feel bad about the 13 more hours of travel and transit ahead of me. But I’m trying not to be a baby.

I get up and go to the bathroom – and this time the bathroom is clean and there is toilet paper. I wonder why the arrivals area was such a pigsty while the departure area is well air conditioned, relatively comfortable and clean. Perhaps they don’t care what you think coming into the country, but they want you to leave with a good last impression.

I can’t sit on the bench anymore so I go into a lovely-looking enclosed café next door. They are playing MTV Base Africa – a station that I used to be very involved with when I worked on the MTV project. They are playing a Justin Timberlake video. I don’t get it. Do people really think he’s sexy? That whole vest, shirtsleeves, thin tie look is so revolting. Everyone in the video is sexy except for Justin.

Hour Four – 8:30 AM

I see a HIV commercial that was produced with my (FHI’s) funding. I can’t help but think that is really cool. I order tea in an effort to feel less cold. It helps.

The immigration guy shows up. How did he find me in here? He has another immigration guy with him – and I’m told that this new person is now handling my case and I need to show up back at the immigration office in 20 minutes. How many immigration officials will I meet today?

No sooner than my tea shows up and the immigration guy is back again. He has ants in his pants. The Kenya Airways ticket office is open – it is time to go. I take a sip, pack up my computer, and meet him back at the immigration office. A group of Pakistani guys are also there. I can’t help it. They look like jihadists to me – and one of them even faintly resembles Osama Bin Laden. I feel guilty thinking it – but I hope they aren’t on my flight. I’m not nearly as PC as I’d like to be – at least not in my deepest darkest thoughts. I am disappointed in myself.

The immigration guys rushes me, my passport and my red bag (which all seem to be in good shape) back out the immigration line and into the main airport. The Pakistanis are left in the immigration office – which I take to mean they are not on my flight after all. There is no one else checking in at the Kenya Airways desk but the woman at the Business Class counter still seems somehow put out that I am checking in. Perhaps in my schelpy clothes, with my messy hair and big bags under my eyes I’m not her ideal image of a Business Class passenger. Or perhaps she is just a bitch. Either way, she issues me my boarding pass and a ticket to the business class lounge. I have visions of lying down of a comfortable couch and sleeping for an hour or two.

The immigration guys whisks me back past the immigration line straight to the security check in. He says his job is done. I say thank you. He says goodbye and walks off.

None of the immigration people asked for money. It stuns me, only because I’ve heard so many stories about the Lagos airport from seasoned Nigeria travelers. Perhaps they’ve had a recent crackdown on corruption. Or maybe I put off vibes that say – don’t try to mess with me. But either way it challenges my stereotype of Nigeria – and even though it was a pain to spend four hours going through all this minor drama, I’m glad that I’ve had the opportunity to learn this lesson. Seriously.

Hour Five – 9:30 AM

I somehow make it through security with my bottle of water. I’m glad, but it makes me question the vigilance of their security system. But I don’t care so much, because the Business Class Lounge and several hours of sleep are just a few feet away. The elevator is broken and so I climb the two flights of stairs. Once in the lounge, I am totally disappointed. It is crowed and smoky and the chairs are the antithesis of comfortable. So instead I pull out my computer and update this post.

I brought some movies, so I think I’ll pop one in now and hope that the two hours until boarding time passes quickly.

Hour Six – 10:30 AM

I have yet to watch a movie because just as I was about to pop one in the DVD drive the lady next to me tells me that there is wireless internet. I go online, read a few e-mails, check out the New York Times and then get booted off the wireless. I can’t get back on.

There is a small, brown/gray mouse running around the Business Class Lounge. I tell the “hostess” and she just laughs. Some of my fellow passengers take interest. The mouse hides and then comes back out. It is actually kind of cute – in a free range mouse kind-of way. If it were a child’s pet instead a sign of petulance in the airport, I would be enjoying it more. I probably would have also been more willing to eat the sandwiches that have been put out. But for now I think I’ll pass.

I’ve taken out my camera. I’m ready to snap a photo of the mouse should it reappear again, and least you think I’m kidding. But alas, after running around for 15 minutes or so, it goes back into hiding. I am mouse-photoless.

I ask the hostess every five minutes if it is time to go to the Kenya Airways flight yet. She just laughs at me and calls me honey.and dear. Finally I cannot wait anymore. I strike out on my own. When I arrive at the gate a gate agent sees my business class ticket and waves me in front of a long line of people putting their bags through security. I should feel bad about the privilege and the race and class issues that it brings up, but I don’t. I’m too tired.

At the door to the gate a man from a Francophone country who looks like a Maribou (traditional holy man) is throwing a fit at the gate agents who are trying to make him check in his suspicious-looking and heavy carry-on luggage. Of course the gate agents win. They always do these days. It isn’t even worth resisting.

Hour Seven – 11:30 AM

I find my seat, pull out my computer and IPOD and settle in for the five hour flight. I am asleep when the plane finally takes off – around 12:45 PM.

The plane is in the air and I am awake now and eating peanuts and enjoying a Diet Coke. The movie, Oceans 13, is playing overhead but my earphones don’t work. I don’t care. I’m headed home where I expect that my day tomorrow will be easier and less chaotic than the one I just had. I admit that this is the part of travel I don’t much like. But it is the necessary evil required to get the rest of the benefits.- like the ability to cross off Nigeria from my list of places I’ve been because although I never left the airport grounds, I feel like I’ve had a real Nigerian experience. And hell, it is my list anyway.

In eight more hours and I’ll benefit from the best part of traveling, which is going home again. I can’t wait to see my babies.

Prologue – 10:30 PM

I am not at home with my babies. My flight from Nairobi to Dar es Salaam was canceled and I’ve just been dumped by a Kenya Airways bus at the Hilton Hotel. The drama of not getting home tonight was slightly tempered by the lovely Kenya Airways agent who rebooked me for tomorrow, put me up in a four star hotel, paid for my visa, and found my luggage.

I’m bummed. But this is the ugly underbelly of international travel. I have no choice but to take the bad and inconvenient with the good of the travel itself. It is a deal I am willing to take.

I’m hooked on travel.

The Old Me (Except the Old Me Didn’t Come With All This Guilt and Worry)

2007-10-31T18:34:00.000+03:00

Awhile back, when asked what I would take from my apartment if there was a fire and I only had a split second to decide, I had an immediate and unequivocal answer.

My passport.

(Not the cats – sorry PETA, not the photos of my young adult wanderings, not my wallet or my credit cards, or the jewelry I inherited from my Grandmother.)

My passport.

My passport, or rather my third of what have now been four passports, was my most prized possession. That passport took me from just before my first ever trip to Africa in 1996 to my departure for Tanzania last year.

It was super-thick, which is a badge of honor in the field of international public health. Extra pages (20 of them) were added three times. And because I was such a super-duper geek, I used to “subtly” turn it on its’ side and wave it around for attention to make sure that those standing with me on line at the airline counter or at immigration could see that I – a seemingly “average Joe” - was actually a travel superstar.

Why? Because it made me feel important and accomplished.

Kind of pathetic. I know.

I was proud of both the variety of stamps it possessed – many in alphabets I cannot read, and also of the fact that some stamps appeared many many times – like Jamaica where I traveled 25 or so times over a three year period right around the turn of the century. (Woe to the Jamaican immigration official who treated me like a tourist.) After each pass through immigration I still searched through the expanding book for the new stamp, just to savor how much space it took up and reflect on its page-mates. Geek that I am, I found meaning when Macedonia shared a page with Greece, or Haiti stamps and Dominican Republic stamps appeared on the same page, shadowing the exact proportion in which they also share the island of Hispaniola.

I think it is safe to say that I loved that passport. It was a metaphor for my life, my personal interests, my diversity of friends around the world, and my work. It was my travel companion during the years that I traveled 244 out of 365 days. To loose it or have it stolen would have been devastating.

But one day in April of 2003, as I stood outside my office building waiting for the cab that was to whisk me to an airplane bound for the Ukraine, all that changed. The doctor’s office called me. I was pregnant. (With twins as it turns out.) The Ukraine was my last trip for a long time. Everything had changed. My most prized positions were now supposed to be my kids; and the passport was to be semi-retired.

In the nearly three years between that trip to the Ukraine and my move to Tanzania, my passport became like a professor alumnus who comes to campus once a year to deliver a special lecture to the senior class. I got out, but not much. And going out to the field meant that I had to make super complex child care arrangements involving up to six people and costing lots of money. For some of my trips I felt like I had to pay out more money for child care than I made in salary during the same period. It was a crazy, confusing time for me. I wanted to be a good mother, but I also wanted and needed to do the work that I loved, and that meant being overseas in a developing country.

In a post I wrote almost a year ago, Mama Wa Wili and the Battle for Independent Hally, I talked about this push-pull that so many women face between being a great mom and being a whole person – so I’m not going to expand on it here. But, in short, I found relief from my guilt, lots of help, and the ability to balance it all (well most of it) by moving to Tanzania. And for the past (nearly) two years – I have managed to find career and parental fulfillment. Mostly.

But the pull of my passport never fully went away. It is great to be based overseas where I can do my work without traveling, but the urge to travel didn’t disappear.

During the day my colleagues in Washington would pressure me to travel to Uganda, or Rwanda or Southern Sudan to do some work for them – and I have been strong and maybe even a little bit self righteous. “Oh no,” I would say to them, “I’m a single mom of young twins. There is no way I could possibly leave them and go to _____ (fill in the blank). Really, you couldn’t possibly expect me to.”

But at night, in bed, I would think obsessively about the opportunities turned down and secretly mourn. The number of stamps in my new passport has remained few. And all of them are either from Tanzania or the US.

Until this week.

Today I’m writing you from Dakar, Senegal. Hally is back on the road!

And, if I have to be honest with you, it feels really great. It is all the more wonderful because I’m in a place that I used to know well, using my (nearly retired) French (although Swahili words keep popping out of my mouth), and I’m leaning about an entirely new topic – avian influenza.

It isn’t the same as before. I left the kids with people I trust – my closest friends. But it was all drama up until the day I left. For the week before my departure my son had a bacterial infection of unknown origin with very high fevers for many days in a row. The first round of antibiotics didn’t work. He ended up needing intramuscular antibiotic shots. And he had only been fever-free for 24 hours when I had to board the airplane at 5 AM for the long flight from East to West Africa. It was really hard making the decision to go. But the doctor said he thought my son would be OK. And so, I left.

I have at least one more solo trip coming up – a visit to South Africa for the wedding of my friends, Kent and Damon, at the end of November. And there is pressure for me to go to Uganda in January. And of course, I need to hook up with my friend David in Dubai or Mumbai sometime in the next six months or so. All of these are appealing prospects, but equally scary. I worry that the children will suffer from my absences and that my close friends will have had enough of watching the kids. (Jane and Gunnar I love you and owe you big!) Being Jewish, guilt and worry are part of my cultural heritage. I can’t help it.

But for today I’m trying to push out the demons of my subconscious, in favor of savoring the new stamp in my passport.

The Senegalese immigration official placed it not on a regular page, but in the Amendments and Endorsements section at the end. (What the hell is that actually for, anyway?)

But that’s OK. I forgive him.

The “Old Me” is on the road. I’m just carrying more baggage than in the past.

And it is beautiful baggage, indeed.

A Member of the Club

2007-10-01T21:31:00.001+03:00

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a love-hate relationship with “belonging” to the “in” group. Something about being an outsider and doing things differently has always been more appealing to me.

Here in Dar es Salaam, the “in” group of expatriates belongs to the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club. I suppose the definition of “in” could stand to be examined in this case. If you consider “in” to be white, wealthy, cliquish, and privileged, then the Yacht Club it the “it” place to be “in”.

(Sorry for all the quotation marks!)

When I moved here I snubbed my nose at the Yacht Club. I told everyone I met that I’m not a Yacht Club kind of gal – despite it’s many obvious benefits. And it’s true. There are a million ways in which I’m not. But none of these ways involve NOT being white, wealthy, cliquish, and privileged. If I have to admit the ugly truth to myself, here in Dar es Salaam, I am indeed all of these things.

I also live only a block away, the setting is gorgeous, the Yacht Club has the only swimable beach within a 20-minute drive from my house, and it has the best pizza in Dar.

Really. The best.

Over the past 18 months I’ve watched innumerable friends try to decide whether or not to join. Everyone is drawn to it – especially those who aren’t working (usually spouses of those of us who are working). All the granola/development-type Americans are horrified by the air of privilege and lack of diversity – and yet they join in droves. This is a place where you can still see a man snap his fingers and call over the “boy” serving the drinks. (The “boy” being a black man.). But just because there is an ugly (sorry but usually) over-the-hill South African type at the bar making as ass of himself, does that mean the rest of us shouldn’t be able to enjoy the sunset?

Well… until my beloved Sea Cliff Hotel burned down last weekend, my answer would have been, “Yes. Absolutely. There are other alternatives in Dar.”

But today I find myself weak and considering what three weeks ago was unthinkable.

Today I stopped by the Yacht Club and picked up an application. It seems the logical thing to do given my situation.

But then why am I so ashamed?
__________________________________________________________

Last weekend when I first started to seriously consider the Yacht Club, and as I was coming to terms with the fact that it will be many months before the Sea Cliff will rise again, I had an epiphany.

My internal struggle with whether or not to join the Yacht Club is actually more about baggage from my youth and less about whether or not here, in Dar es Salaam, should I or shouldn’t I join many friends I adore who made the decision to join despite their initial concerns.

You see, I grew up in Larchmont, New York where Yacht Clubs – or clubs in general – were the playground of the rich kids. But they were also segregated. I’m not so sure that in the late 1970s they were truly segregated (as in they had policies promoting segregation), but in practice they were almost entirely so.

The WASPy kids’ families belonged to THE Larchmont Yacht Club – which was so WASPy and preppy that it was even mentioned in The Preppy Handbook. The Larchmont Yacht Club really was the crème de la crème, although the joke in town was that it was so WASPy that they only sold alcohol but not food (because WASPs don’t eat).

The Jewish kids’ families belonged to Beach Point Club. The saying about Beach Point was that they only served food, but no drinks, because all we Jews ever do is eat.

Finally the Catholic kids’ families belonged to Bonnie Briar Country Club – which wasn’t a Yacht Club at all, but had an 18-hole golf course (which presumably only Catholics played on) that turned into the best sledding in town when snowstorms hit. (Thank you Catholics!) The saying about Bonnie Briar was that you could get both food and alcohol there, because, you know, the Catholics both eat and drink! (Well-rounded people.)

I don’t remember ever feeling like I was missing out on this scene (my family belonged only to the local junior high school swimming pool), but I think I had a sense of righteous indignation that some kids “belonged” and other didn’t, and whether or not you belonged had something to do with your heritage rather than self-selection.

But it was all for the best anyway. Even if my family had belonged to the Larchmont Yacht Club I’m not sure they would have let me in with the punk coiffe, blue hair, and black on black wardrobe I sported in my teenage years anyway.
_______________________________________________________________

So tonight I sit here with my application to the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club nearly complete. All that’s missing is a “recommendation” from a member in good standing and I’ll be accepted into their temporary membership program (i.e. I get to go for three months and try it out before coughing up $1000+ to actually join). I’m staring at it like I’m a recovering addict and the application is a heroin-filled syringe.

Oh the temptation. Oh the horror.

But actually, now I know I’m going to do it. I’m going to join. And You are the reason why.

I figure, three months won’t kill me, right?

But likely it will provide much fodder for the blog.

And so temptation wins.

I’m “in”.

Hey white, wealthy, cliquish, privileged lady! What do you want to drink?

Shmuli’s Big Yom Kippur Adventure

2007-09-24T21:53:00.000+03:00

The Chabad did it again!

They graced the Jews of Dar es Salaam with a very special gift.

They sent us Shmuli.

Sweet, earnest, lovable, rabbinical student Shmuli. From Australia via Brooklyn – but with a Yiddish accent from the old country. Dressed for Crown Heights, with bright orange hair, Shmuli was one of the most endearing people I’ve met in a long time. Because he came to us so eager to please, to reconnect us with our “Jewish souls”, and to help us understand that we may be far from the Jewish center, but we carry our Jewishness in our hearts, always.

And poor Shmuli. He had quite a tough job.

The Jewish community here in Dar is a rag-tag group of immigrants far from home. (Kind of like the characters on Battlestar Galactica.)

There are not many of us – probably less than 40 in the entire country of 40 million or so people. And we are mostly evenly split between Israelis and Americans – with a smattering of Brits for good measure. The Israelis and the Americans don’t interact so much. There’s actually not that much to say. But what brings us together is the presence of one Middle Eastern restaurant run by an amazing and oh-so-stereotypically Israeli family – a mother with a larger-than-life personality and her three lovely daughters. They keep a list of the Jews who find them by word-of-mouth – drawn to them like notes to the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. They know that there is a strong and inexplicable need for the Jew alone and abroad to seek out other Jews and let them know they, too, are here. We are connected, even though our affiliations are limited. And that means something when you are so far from home.

So when the call came that Shmuli was in town, that the Chabad had sent us a rabbi from Brooklyn for Yom Kippur - and that this rabbi, who came to Dar via Nairobi where the synagogue there entrusted him with one of their most valued items, a Torah, which he aimed to read (for the first time in Tanzania that anyone knows of), we all came running - American (enthusiastic) and Israeli (rather grudgingly) alike.

The problem was – we needed a minyon. Ten men. Were there 10 Jewish men in Dar?

Actually… no one was sure.

Shmuli counted, I didn’t.

The brand new guy at the American Embassy (single and sort of cute – but that’s another story) counted, but my girlfriend Mari who works for CDC didn’t.

(By the way, as far as we all can tell – Mari and the new guy are the ONLY Jews in the entire official US delegation. Can you believe that?)

I wanted to walk right up to Shmuli and say, “Listen here young man, you are in our territory now! You may be observant, but the rest of us aren’t. (In fact the Israelis are downright secular – it was like pulling teeth just to get some of them to participate.) Women count. We’re here in Tanzania telling the Tanzanian’s that women count – so we sure as hell can't have them not count here.”

But OK, sue me. I didn’t do it.

I was too intrigued by the game… sitting around… watching every car that drove into the compound to see if they contained men, and if so, how many.

Erev Yom Kippur for Kol Nidre somehow we pulled it off. Nine guys showed. Shmuli was there. We had a minyon but all it meant was that we could say the Kaddish. Nice, but not earth-shattering. Still… the Torah lay there on the table that straddled the partitioned women’s and men’s sections – and that was pretty awe inspiring in and of itself.

At the end of the evening, Shmuli begged the men to come back the next day.

At 11 AM on Saturday morning there were only two men there at the appointed hour, and then three, and finally four, and at about 11:30 an SUV of Israeli men (the only American man was the guy from the Embassy) showed up. We had nine including Shmuli. It didn’t look like we were going to make it.

And then one of the daughters from the restaurant announced, “I’m going to do what I was avoiding. I was hoping that it wasn’t going to come to this. I’m calling my schmuck of a Stepfather and getting him over here now.”

And low and behold, the Stepfather showed about 10 minutes later. We had a minyon!

So Saturday morning Shmuli read from the Torah, with the help of the nine other semi-reluctant but nevertheless present guys, for the first time ever in Dar, and maybe even ever in Tanzania.

And it felt like it was meant to be. I can’t tell you why. But it was how it felt. Everyone in the room knew it, too.

Shmuli was so happy when it was over, grinning ear-to-ear. He had us sing a song of celebration at the end of the service and entertained us with a lovely story about Henry Kissinger and Golda Meir.

And it was telling that six hours later, when it came time for breaking the fast and Havdallah service (end of the Sabbath) that everyone came back again, and shared sweet kosher wine sent to us as a gift from the synagogue in Nairobi, and ate wonderful honey cake made for us by one of the most reluctant of the Israeli guys.

We were, we are for now, a community of Jews in Dar.

Shmuli leads us in prayer for Kol Nidre

The Torah is read on Yom Kippur in the morning.

The Torah is held for everyone to see, the women's section, and honey cakes.

Like a Phoenix from the Ashes, the Sea Cliff Will Rise Again! Well... in About a Year.

2007-09-23T16:19:00.001+03:00

The Sea Cliff Hotel from above

Last night one of the worst things that could possibly happen to me in Dar did indeed happen.

The Sea Cliff Hotel…

My haven of peace…

The most beautiful spot...

My recreation area of choice…

The place where I used to stay before I moved here…

The place from where I got to know Dar…

The place where the kids and I spend almost every Sunday, and some Saturdays, and sometimes two or more evenings a week…

The place that has come to represent much of what makes me happy about living in Dar…

The first place where I take all my visitors - to see the beautiful sea and feel the refreshing wind…

The place where, as I sit by the pool and enjoy a diet coke under a thatched hut, I tell anyone who will listen, “This is my life. Not bad, eh?”

Burnt.

Up in flames.

Totaled.

I spent the afternoon by the Sea Cliff pool yesterday – me, the kids, my friends Jane and Gunnar and their daughter, Mimi. And all the usual suspects – my pool buddies and their kids where there, too. It was a simply gorgeous day. We had a lovely time, relaxing, chatting, watching the kids play and enjoy the water. We stayed until almost 5 PM – for some reason reluctant to go – but the sun was going to be setting soon and I needed to get back to Yom Kippur services.
____________________________________________________

As Yom Kipper came to an end and I was enjoying some honey cake and sweet wine - sent to Dar by the Nairobi Jewish community - the first text message came. (I had just finished telling a newbie – a Jewish woman who had just moved to Dar – how much I loved it here and that I was sure that she would love it, too.)

“The Sea Cliff is on fire!”

And like a moth to a candle, I couldn’t stay away. I rushed over only to see the entire roof – made of thatching – on fire. Giant flames were spurred on by the sea winds.

Every fire truck in Dar was there.

But of course, there was no water. Evidently they tried to use the water from the pool. My pool. But it wasn’t enough.

Then the US Embassy and the Port of Dar and all the other institutions with water trucks sent what they had to the Sea Cliff. But by the time the water got to the fire (we have no public water system on most of the Peninsula) it was an hour after the fire started (in the kitchen behind the pool). It was too late to save the hotel.

In some ways – we (the community in Dar) are lucky. The Sea Cliff Village – the high end shopping area right next door – also with a thatched roof – was miraculously spared. The wind was blowing in just the right direction. And the Karembazi Café – the beautiful restaurant jutting out into the sea was also spared.

But my pool area is completely gone.

I went back again twice last night to watch it burn. I think I couldn’t believe it. I had to see it for myself. Me and about 1000 others – it was quite attraction.

And I went back again this AM – three times - to see it in the light of day. It doesn’t look good.

I can’t stop thinking about all the lovely Masaai doormen, the lovely housekeeping staff, the waiters by the pool and in the Calabash restaurant. They have no jobs now. They will no longer be a daily part of our lives. I’m sure it is a much bigger tragedy for them than it is me… but I can’t help but think about it in personal terms.
_________________________________________________________

The Sea Cliff pool was my refuge. In my head it was synonymous with all that makes me happy here – the sunshine, the crashing sea, recreation, good friends, beautiful views, swimming, and feeling at home with myself and the place.

I’m so sad for my hotel and for myself. And then I think how can I be so sad for an inanimate object? For a hotel?

But I am. It is like a good friend has passed. Like a piece of me and my memory has been taken from me.
________________________________________________________________

This morning I heard that the managers are telling everyone that they will start rebuilding right away.

Hopefully the hotel will be like the bionic man – rebuilt bigger, stronger, and better than before.

In the meantime I don’t know what Jaden, Rowan and I will do.

We will survive. But we won’t be happy. Our Sea Cliff Hotel is down for the count.

The Sea Cliff Hotel - this morning

The view from the pool in happier times

The fire started back by the pool bar

My pool on fire

Still there....????

2007-09-20T23:12:00.000+03:00

Jaden and Rowan enjoying a perk of the "first world".

Rye Playland Amusement Park

Hi out there.

I can't believe it has been two whole months since I last posted. I'm a bad girl. Bad Hally. Bad.

It seems that once it has been awhile since I last wrote it is almost impossible to sit down and write again.

It isn't like I've forgotten you!

Many times I've had a partially formulated blog in my head that I swore I was going to commit to type the second I got home. And then once you don't do it for awhile you think you need to write about everything that's happened - and that can be a block too.

I was going to write you a fabulous blog called Home Sweet Home - Sort Of about my month long trip to the US with the kids and challenges of being back home (e.g. no nanny, no cook, no housekeeper, too many choices) and how I went totally nuts shopping - coming home with 5 huge bags when I left Tanzania with just 2 small bags. But that's old news now. I've been back in TZ for nearly three weeks.

Then I was going to write a funny blog called Tsunami New Year - telling you about how in the middle of hosting a lovely apples and honey-filled Rosh Hashana dinner for 12 Jews and one honorary Jew my phone started ringing off the hook with friends warning me that the Tanzanian government was evacuating the coastline because a huge tsunami was headed our way after the giant Indonesia earthquake. (This is just last week.) The government was going up and down the streets of my neighborhood with bullhorns telling folks to move away from the beach. So there I was with a house full of people in a celebratory mood with a decision to make. (I only live one block from the ocean.) Panic or not to panic. We turned on CNN and BBC and it was clear that no tsunami had hit Sri Lanka (which would be a natural intermediate point for a tsunami on its way to us) and so we continued to party. Of course nothing happened. But interestingly the next morning I had an official "Warden Message" from the US Embassy telling all US citizens to beware of a possible tsunami and "nature's warning signs" such as a rapid retreat of water. Amusing because they sent it out at 10 PM when absolutely no American would have been online (the tsunami was supposedly expected between 11 PM and 1 AM).

I guess they were just covering their asses... just in case we were wiped away - the Embassy could have said, "Well, we warned them."

I also planned to write a blog called The Amazing Adventures of Matt and Ben because the day after the tsunami debacle I found myself at lunch at my favorite Indian restaurant with my friend, Tom, and Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. Evidently they were in town visiting HIV care and support projects and some malaria projects for Bono's NGO, DATA. Thanks to a series of events which I won't bother you with they ended up talking to me after lunch. Matt turned and said, "Hey, what's your name and what are you doing in Tanzania?" Since I wasn't expecting to speak to them, all I could say was:

"Hally. Condoms. Sex Workers!"

"Ok," they said - as they looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes.

I don't think I made much of an impression.

And finally the last blog I was going to write was called Lazy Lagoon. That would have just been a bit of a travel log about the divine weekend Jaden, Rowan and I spent on an island off the coast of TZ in a small resort - by that name. Our hut was so close to the ocean that the sea woke me up at high tide in the middle of the night. (Not very tsunami-proof!) And we had dinner on the beach by candlelight with the stars of the Southern sky twinkling above us. It was heaven. I love Tanzania. (And not just for the divine R&R spots, but for the nannies, and the housekeepers, and the cooks, etc.)

OK. Great. We are finally caught up. Now I can just go ahead and start writing blogs again without feeling like I have too many things in the pipeline I have to write about before I can get to the topic at hand.

And you better stay tuned. I have a great blog coming for tomorrow!

Not So Faithful

2007-07-22T18:21:00.000+03:00

“God bless you,” said one of the men in my office – a representative of a well-known international Christian NGO. I will spend the next five years working with him if we win the latest proposal we’ve submitted to USAID.

“We’re doing God’s work here,” said the other. “HE is guiding our way.”

Well that would be nice, I thought. Then we’ll be sure to win this thing.

I hope I managed to contain how uncomfortable I felt with that small exchange – but somehow I know I wasn’t successful. Try as I might, all this faith-talk in the office makes me nervous.

But I suppose I made the first guy a little bit nervous earlier in the week. I knew that this particular Christian NGO requires people who work for them to be “believers”. At work they have a group prayer every morning – even in their Washington, DC office!!! (And even though they get load and loads of public tax-payer funds to implement development programs.) But one of the two DC-based public health (and prayer) experts who showed up in my office on Monday that week has the most Jewish of names. I don’t want to write it here – in case he decides to Google his name and finds himself in my blog – but let’s just say it was as Jewish as “Jerry Seinfeld”.

“So “Jerry”,” I said later that Monday morning, “that sounds like a Jewish name. Are you Jewish by any chance?”

You should have seen the look of shock and horror on his face.

“Who me? Jewish? I work for (Christian international NGO)! We pray every day and can’t even apply for a job unless we declare that we are Christian! How can you assume I’m Jewish just from my name???”

Well…uh…

Really I had no reason. I should have known better. Despite the name my Jew-dar was not beeping. This guy was Christian "believer" through and through. Later it did occur to me that he could be like Madeline Albright… with a secret Jewish Holocaust-era past. But really… I didn’t give a shit.

God bless him.

On the “pages” of this blog I’ve written several times about my struggles with very faithful folks (VFFs). In particular I have issues with the religious missionaries I sometimes overhear at the local hotels or oftentimes on the airplane into Dar – with their talk about sharing the Word with ignorant locals.

Go home, I always want to tell them. The people here need lots of things. But Western spiritual values promoted by VFFs is not one of them.

(I guess that’s more of the Jew in me. I don’t really believe in proactive conversion. I figure if you are born into it, great. If you find it later in life after an extensive search for your truth, wonderful. But please don’t walk around trying to convert people like you are marketing for a new bank – Hey… convert today… get a new toaster, free!)

On the other hand, there are many religious people doing incredible work all around me. I am working with lots of Christian and Muslim local groups that are doing high-quality HIV, child survival and malaria work – albeit within the boundaries of religiously imposed or perceived limits. The best therapist in Dar is an Irish Catholic nun who has been here for 30 years. She is currently good friends with one of my friends who is a lesbian and has really helped a gay friend of mine who is struggling with his partner. And many of my Tanzanian colleagues, who I really respect, have close personal relationships with Allah and/or God.

So what makes me so uncomfortable?

Thinking about this – after the many God-ful experiences of last week with "Jerry" and his pal - I had an epiphany. It seems that it is really only religious Westerners that make me uncomfortable. I guess it is the paternalist nature of religion morphed with race and north-south relations that really bothers me. Lay that on top of US faith-based organizations getting tax dollars to implement programs… and that pesky separation of church and state thing... and it all really gets to me…
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Eight years ago, I traveled to Uganda to facilitate a training workshop while I was on spring break in graduate school. On that trip nearly everything went wrong. One of my colleagues broke her foot as we pulled into the training site on the first day. Another spent the whole two weeks in bed in her room with a flu/stomach issue. My bags didn’t arrive until five days into the two week training. Everything was a mess.

But on my last evening in Uganda I sat in the Business Class lounge of the airport thinking “I only need to get on that plane and then everything will be OK.”

My flight was called and I walked down the hallway to the gate. The “gate” was actually a massive, three-story staircase. I had a pretty big suitcase with me and so I grabbed it, grabbed the railing, and repeated my mantra “I only need to get on that plane and then everything will be OK.”

One step at a time… Finally I made it to the bottom. As I walked out onto the tarmac I didn’t see my plane. I kept walking and looking and walking and then BAM… I tripped over a curb and went flying all the way forward, scraping my knees along the rough tarmac past the edge of the airport building until POP… I heard my ankle give way and twist.

When my body finally stopped moving, I was sprawled out on the tarmac, body twisted, bags, papers, passport spread around me. I managed to sit up enough to grab my ankle and repeat over and over, “oh shit, oh shit”. I thought I had broken it.

And as I sat there I realized that I finally saw the plane – past the end of the building… British Airways… almost close enough to make it home unscathed, but not enough.

And as I sat there, men, lots and lots of older white men, walked right past me sitting on the tarmac grabbing my ankle, barely even looking down. They were my fellow Business Class passengers, but I guess their business was too important to help me with mine.

Finally… one of the last in the stream of white men actually walked over to me. And I thought, “finally someone has come to help”.

The man leaned over me, put his hands on my head, and said,

“Lord Jesus, use your power to heal this woman.”

And then he walked away.

He just walked away and left me there on the tarmac. He didn’t ask if I needed help. He didn’t ask if I needed prayer.

It was a pray and run.

And it really really really pissed me off. It was the final humiliation in a bad moment.

Luckily… the BA Business Class purser, who saw me fly across the tarmac when I made it past the end of the building, had by then managed to get to me. He helped me up, somehow got me on the plane (up the stairs) and comfortably seated. He helped me clean my bloody knees and elbows and even found an ace bandage to wrap around my angle.

Later in the flight I got up to go to the bathroom. It was night time, the plane was dark, and my ankle was as swollen as a basketball. But I walked up and down the aisle trying to figure out which one of the assholes was the one who prayed without asking and then just left me there to bleed. But Business Class was a sea of older white men – and bloody, youngish, swollen, me. I couldn’t figure it out. The guy got off easy. I’m not really sure what I would have said if I had found him (How DARE you pray over me without asking first?) but instead I just stewed about it for the next 24 hours flying home.
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So you can see… I have a lot of baggage which I’m bringing into this new relationship with the international Christian NGO where all the staff pray together every day – and were I can expect to be blessed and praised and amen-ed for the next five years should we be lucky enough to have our partnership consecrated by the United States Agency for International Development.
Just spending your tax dollars to save Tanzanian babies and women from illness and death from malaria – in the name of the Lord.

Amen.

Rockets' Red Glare

2007-07-08T21:50:00.000+03:00

Overt acts of patriotism make me uncomfortable.

All that flag waving, unnecessary boasting, and talk of the superiority of American values and ways has driven me away from celebrating the Forth of July with any sort of style or substance for many years now.

(And this despite the fact that I really do think America is the best place in the world. I just don’t think it pays to brag about it.)

What is it about patriotism in America that is so distasteful – especially for the liberal-minded among us? I’ve thought a lot about that over the past years as I traveled the world and observed the equal levels of patriotism and pride with which other countries celebrate their national holidays.

The French boast about the superiority of their food, wine and culture on Bastille Day. Tanzanians celebrate peace, unity, and recent years of relative growth and prosperity on their national days. Just last week (July 1) I found myself in a bar in Dar surrounded by a bevy of Canadians celebrating Canada Day with “traditional” Canadian foods involving potatoes, gravy and cheese. (Yes, who knew there were traditional Canadian foods?)

But clearly these people haven’t gotten the memo. The America is the best. They can only hope to be as fabulous and free.

Right.

Last year I blogged about the US Embassy in Dar es Salaam’s 4th of July celebration for the American community and told you all about the interesting groups of Americans that can be found so far from home.

This year I managed to score invitations to TWO 4th of July parties!

Let me start with the second party, for the American community in Dar, which was held on the 6th of July and featured (for the second year) overcooked hamburgers and inedible hotdogs, but at least the bouncy castle stayed full of air and the company was good.

The highlights of the party were a US Marines vs. the American community tug-of-war (hmmm… is there a pun in here somewhere?), the dunking booth (when word got out that the head of CDC was in the booth I watched at least five people run across the lawn to get their turn at dunking him), and finally a pie-eating contest.

Why a pie-eating contest? Well… because as Americans living overseas we clearly don’t eat enough pie!

(Did I mention that there was a separate pie-eating contest for the kids? We start them binging early in America!)

Earlier in the week, in a clear sign that I’ve moved up in the pecking order in Dar over the past year, I received a formal invitation to the Ambassador’s official party for the diplomatic community which was actually held on the 4th. The organizers did a fabulous job beautifying the already impressive Embassy (fortress) grounds with giant (car bomb barriers) planters decorated in red, white and blue and Christmas lights. We were escorted up a red carpet to a formal receiving line consisting of the Ambassador, the head of USAID, the head of CDC and the Military Attache.

I felt so special and warm inside – like I was actually an important person.

Inside the Embassy garden was a cornucopia of color… people of every shade in costumes of every type. It was beautiful… like the whole world had joined America to celebrate our special day. The wine and samosas were flowing freely… the conversation was intriguing… and I thought it was going oh so well until (four beers into the evening) I leaned over to ask the Chinese Ambassador if it was he who had personally prepared the fireworks show.

He wasn’t particularly amused. Or rather, in the sober light of day, I like to think that the death look just meant that he just didn’t understand my question.

The whole event was beautiful – except for the awkward moment when the Tanzanian Foreign Minister (the Government of Tanzania’s official representative at the party) asked the group to toast to the health of “George Bush and the United States of America”. (Oh why the double toast?)

All the foreigners lifted their glasses. But most of the Americans (at least the ones I could see) looked around them awkwardly for a cue about how to handle the moment. It was uncomfortable to say the least – but mainly because of the mixed audience and the enthusiasm of many of the non-Americans.

But for me, the most interesting part of the evening (even surpassing the excellent fireworks show NOT put on by the Chinese delegation) was an exhibition that everyone entering and leaving the event had to pass.

It seems that the US Embassy recently held a contest for popular Tanzanian cartoonists to depict the relationship between the US and Africa. (I know… what were they thinking!!!)

On the 4th of July, displayed very nicely in the most public of places, for all the world to see, were 10 of the most critical and scathing cartoons about America I’ve ever seen. As I walked from one end of the exhibit (where George Bush was featured under a Mission Accomplished banner mocking all the fabulous missions accomplished by the US 50 years ago and longer but questioning what America has accomplished since) to the other end (where a giant George Bush was sucking all the mineral wealth from Africa while filling his pockets with money) I was stunned that someone in the Embassy actually had the balls to put these on display at all.

But at that moment I was intensely proud of my country. Because the country that I want to come from feels comfortable sharing and reflecting on outside criticism, even on the day meant to celebrate how fabulous we are.

I realized in that moment why overt acts of patriotism have always felt so awkward for me. It is because in America, patriotism is defined as unquestioning support for country. We are expected to love our country blindly, no matter what it does in our name. Anything less is open to attack as being un-American.

My definition of patriotism is different. It means I can love my country intensely (I do) and feel proud of all it has accomplished (I do) while still reflecting on the things we are not doing well (a lot at the moment) and work to change those things (I gave money to two Democratic candidates in June).

I love my country now. But the day that negative cartoons about America are exhibited on the front steps of the Capitol building on the 4th of July… my cup will runnith over with pride.

The Ten Plagues of Dar (In the Rainy Season)

2007-06-06T21:26:00.000+03:00

Rain – Non-stop, you can’t expect an umbrella to possibly keep you dry, hard driving tropical rain every single day for a week.

Floods – The entire two kilometer ride to Jaden and Rowan’s school is one giant puddle. Seriously… there is no dry land. Calling Noah…

Potholes – Dar is famous for its urban potholes. This time of the year each pothole is the size of Toledo, Ohio. They swallow your car whole. They are so large that I often wonder if we can make it out the other side in my four wheel drive.

Mud – As often follows rain and floods comes mud. I’ve ruined at least three pairs of shoes in the last week. Next time I go home I’m buying us all old fashioned galoshes.

Leaking – You should see my office reception area. The sewage pipe overflowed, leaking smelly, awful smudge everywhere. Water seeps through my office window panes

Frogs (or are they toads?) – At any break in the rain (at night) the frogs start up with their synchronized croaking – so loud it is impossible to sleep. They are amazing because multiple frogs start and stop croaking at the same time. And although each frog sounds like it must be the size of a cat, when you finally meet one (or run over one) crossing the road, it turns out they are the size of a hamster.

Millipedes, Centipedes and Preying Mantis – Creepy crawlies have invaded our house. They are everywhere. And sometimes they are scary-big.

Couped Up Children – Kids everywhere are going crazy. Stuck inside, Dora the Explorer and her peppy cousin Diego the Animal Rescuer are our only release. And when the rain stops and the kids go out to play, mud cakes their shoes, their clothes, my floor and my furniture.

Washed Out Social Events – Sadly, the biggest crafts sale of the year was almost washed out entirely last weekend. Outdoor parties are held inside in cramped quarters. It is finally cool enough to enjoy sitting outside at night, but alas…

Ruined Sundays – Sunday is family day. We spend it at the pool. Not only has it rained through the past three Sundays but it is actually too cold to swim here on the equator.

I’m starting to worry that Moses is going to show up and lead on us a forced march to the Promised Land. My skin gets all dry and scaly in the desert. So keep your fingers crossed that the rains end soon.

Staying Healthy in Tanzania

2007-06-02T22:41:00.000+03:00

The kids and I have excellent American health insurance – and we need it because health care in America costs a bloody fortune.

But not here in Tanzania.

Since we moved here we have been to the doctor many many times – as many if not more times than during Jaden and Rowan’s first year of life.

Between the three of us we have suffered from fevers, coughs, eye infections, allergies, diarrhea, stomach flues, and even hookworm. We’ve each had several malaria tests (since every time you - or especially your kids - have a fever you need to get tested right away) and (knock on wood) they have always come back negative.

I’ve had to fill prescriptions for antibiotics, decongestants, antihistamines, cough suppressants, de-worming medication, fever medicines, oral rehydration salts, and malaria treatment (to carry on safari as a precaution).

Our doctor went to Johns Hopkins University for an MPH – just the year before me.

We are well cared for here. I’ve never had to wait for an appointment for more than 10 minutes and I always can get an appointment within a few hours of calling the office. And if it is an emergency I can just walk right in. We are getting gold star service.

And I’ve never, not once, submitted an insurance claim form. Never.

Why?

We haven’t even come close to spending the $400 (the deductible) between the three of us.

An office visit costs $17.00
A malaria test costs $3.00
High-end antibiotics tips the scales at $20.00 for a 10-day course
De-worming medicine, to clear the worms from Rowan’s feet, costs $1.00

As long as we stay somewhat healthy we won’t in any given year need to fill in the insurance forms and wait for this or that procedure to be rejected.

I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging or anything, but I’m certain that we are getting better and more cost-effective health care than you are, just as long as nothing major goes wrong.

Keep your fingers crossed.
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You don’t need to point out to me that the care my family is getting is not the norm in Tanzania. Believe me. I know. Over the past year I have spent many hours visiting public health care services here – and trust me – it ain’t pretty.

Although Tanzania’s health care system likely works better than many other countries in sub-Saharan Africa, the situation on the ground is pretty hard to stomach.

Facilities are overcrowded. The waits are so long that sometimes patients have to come back the next day. Healthcare workers are poorly paid. And in fact – something like a full 25% of the nurses and doctors trained in Tanzania are currently working in other countries that pay better, like Botswana and Zambia.

Life saving, essential drugs are often stocked out. Tanzania has instituted cost-sharing, so that patients pay for at least some part of the value of drugs bought at public dispensaries. But it doesn’t much help to have cheep drugs when you can even get patients to use them. For example, there is a tremendous decrease in maternal and infant morbidity and mortality when pregnant women receive preemptive treatment for malaria – once early in their in their second trimester and once in third trimester. Unfortunately, the average first prenatal visit is around 22 weeks. (Remember – that’s the average – half the population comes later or not at all.) Providers sometimes provide the drug, sometimes they don’t. About 60% of women get the first treatment. Only about 22% get a second treatment. This represents a major opportunity lost.

And because malaria is now resistant to most drugs, the new “combination” treatments that do work cost 30-times the old treatment. This is money that many just cannot afford. So their child doesn’t get lifesaving treatment. Their child dies.
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Is it any wonder given the cost of health care (we haven’t even factored in the financial costs of getting to the health services or the opportunity costs of leaving a job or the land for a day to go to the services) that people often turn to two other sources of health care – informal pharmacies called Duka la Dawas or traditional healers.

Outside of the big cities, Duka la Dawas are often dusty, dirty spots selling a few – often expired, often fake, often inappropriate drugs. There you can go and buy just four antibiotic pills – rather than the 20 you need – because that is all you can afford.

Let’s talk drug resistance…

Traditional healers are often the first stop choice for those in need of healing. I’ve even heard educated Tanzanians talk about illness being related to curses or punishment – and traditional healers have spells and potions that can help fight the hex.

Before you judge them, however, think about how often you’ve heard people in the West wonder (or even wondered yourself) if their illness was somehow a message from God, or karma, etc.

It isn’t any different.
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I wish that everyone in Tanzania could afford the excellent $17.00 health care that the kids and I are getting.

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I’m not sure how to end this blog. I don’t have a wrap up thought that will make you say, “ah ha, that brought it all together for me.”

I guess I just wanted to say that the world is totally unjust. Here I am reminded of that – and the value of good health care - every single day.

A board announcing the price of various medications at the Tandale Health Clinic in a "poor" area of Dar es Salaam.

Women waiting for antenatal services at the Tandale Health Clinic

The Nanny Diaries

2007-05-19T08:42:00.000+03:00

The other day my friend Molly and I were gossiping about our nannies’ eccentricities.

“But did you hear the story of Betty’s nanny?” I asked her.

“No, what now?” responded Molly.

“Well,” I said, “Her nanny was dying in her backyard.”

“Typical,” said Molly.

Typical? Well… sort of… yes.

Take my friend Betty’s nanny. Betty (a Dutch friend whose kids go to school with Jaden and Rowan) noticed that her nanny was coughing a lot just before she left on safari. By the time she got back her nanny was gasping for air and in an altered mental state. Betty, concerned that the nanny might have tuberculosis, took her to the top end health center in town. The diagnosis wasn’t tuberculosis, but it turned out that the nanny had advanced AIDS – only 50 T-cells left. The day I met up with Betty at the pool, she was exhausted and frustrated, trying to figure out the right thing to do. After the diagnosis, the nanny’s entire family (seven people) moved into the one-room staff quarters in Betty’s backyard to care for her. Betty was understandably concerned about what her kids would think/understand and getting impatient with the family’s repeated requests for money and other favors.

“She’s so sick,” Betty told me. “I wish she would just go ahead and die already so we could get this over with.”

“Have you thought about getting her on treatment?” I asked. “It is pretty widely available these days for people as sick as your nanny.”

“She can’t even get out of bed,” said Betty. “It’s too late. I just need to find a new nanny”

My friends… try not to judge Betty. She was really frustrated and out of answers at that point. And in fact, the next day the medicine the nanny had been given to fight her lung infection was working and the nanny was able to communicate again. Betty called me to ask where the nanny could get antiretroviral drugs. I made a few calls, and within two days the nanny had been put into an AIDS treatment program. (One of the only things I can thank President Bush for - Thank you President Bush.)

Perhaps most importantly for Betty, the nanny and all her family members had been convinced to move out of the back yard.

It may sound heartless to you, but having a stranger in your yard is not easy. They are always there. They bring their own friends into your compound. They are adults but the dynamic is more like parent and adolescent. Families have tremendous influence over they way they live their lives. It is unfair, no doubt.

And don’t even get me started about the economic disparities. The best paid nannies are making about $150/month – but most are making closer to $100/month or less.

And most are separated from their own children and husbands – choosing to live in staff quarters on the compounds of their employers where there is 24-hour a day electricity and access to food and safe water.

The nannies of Dar are an interesting and mysterious lot. Good nannies are a hot commodity and traded freely among families coming and going in two-four year contract cycles. And relations among and between nannies are confusing to understand for us outsiders.

There are older nannies (particularly ones that work for Indian families) who wear a sort of colonial era uniform of a long skirt with an apron and an Aunt Jemima schmata on their heads. There are the younger conservative nannies – whom seem to be very proud to be working for ex-pat families and come to work dressed to the nines every day – sometimes in high heals and beautiful local dresses.

And then there is Secunda – our nanny – who dresses like a 13 year-old girl in midriff bearing lace shirts and capris.

Other nannies out there judge Secunda for her clothes – I know they do. But frankly, Secunda is among the few who can really get down and dirty with the kids they watch. And I’m all for free expression. But clearly there are other nannies that will have nothing to do with her as a result. I imagine that they think Secunda must be a loose woman – but the irony is I’ve never even seen Secunda have a conversation with a man – and she claims she swore off men 15 years ago when she watched her sister die of AIDS.

Sometimes I watch these women who we pay to raise our children and I wonder about their lives. Secunda, for example, has raised more than 30 stranger’s children in the last 15 years – caring for their every need, loving them, teaching them, feeding them, and wiping away their tears – only to have the kids ripped from them at the end of two years. And then the next day they have to do it all again for a new family. I imagine it must actually take a tremendous emotional toll on them. Perhaps that’s why so many of them seem so strange.

I watch the tremendous way Secunda cares for Jaden and Rowan and I’m even a little jealous about how good she is at it. But then I try to remind myself that she’s a professional and I’m still a novice at the parenting thing. She probably wouldn’t be any good at designing an HIV prevention campaign.

So there!

While the ex-pat mothers of Dar es Salaam have it way easier than most moms in other places – with a cornucopia of inexpensive child care help, housekeepers and whatnot, we also have our extraordinary challenges that would make most American parents gasp for air.

Molly and I both used to be on the DC-Urban Moms list-serve, a venue where every day 40 e-mails from complaining (mostly moms) would wax poetic on travails of parenting, particularly childcare. Typical posts ask for advice about how to get the nanny to feed their child one fewer bananas during the day, or how to get the nanny to arrive five minutes earlier so they can get out the door to work on time.

Molly said to me the other day, “I think we should rejoin DC-Urban-Moms and post about the nanny problems us and are friends are having here and see how people respond.”

That made me laugh. Hard.

Today I’m going to reregister with DC-Urban-Moms and put up this post:

I’m posting to get some advice for my friends. They have a housekeeper/nanny who they have really loved and embraced, but in the last 6 months that housekeeper has had all her belongings stolen from her house by her grandfather, her brother has committed suicide (and she needed to take off two weeks to attend to the funeral rites), and then her 14-year-old niece who lived with her was killed by her uncle after he threw a machete at her legs (when she was running away from him because he was trying to steal the land she inherited from her grandmother) and the wound was poorly cared for by health services (twice) and she contracted tetanus and died. At this point the housekeeper owes them a more than a year’s worth of salary that she has borrowed to help her deal with all these tragedies and she is asking for more money still.

My friends are at their wits’ end. What should they do?

I can’t wait to see the answers.

Secunda as photographed by Jaden

Swahili School Drop Out

2007-05-09T22:21:00.000+03:00

Yesterday I dropped out of Swahili classes – for the second time. It was an inauspicious end to my first year in Tanzania. There will be no graduation day for me.

What’s my excuse? I’ve got lots of them. I’m too busy. I cannot commit to one night a week. I’m too old to learn a new language. All my colleagues speak perfect English and so I never get to practice. The list goes on and on and on.

But it’s all bullshit. At my age I should just decide to do something and stay the course, right? Where’s my stick-to-it-ive-ness? Don’t I want to be an amateur anthropologist and get “closer” to the Tanzanian people through the language they speak?

How will I be able to justify having spent two or three years in Tanzania to my ex-Peace Corps friends if I don’t have some serious Swahili language under my belt?

Truthfully, I’ve always thought it a noble aspiration to speak more than one’s native tongue. Although I’ve dabbled at different times – and to different levels of success – with Hebrew, Arabic and Spanish, the only languages I can truly claim to speak are English and French.

(After 10 Arabic classes I had the audacity to add Arabic to my CV when I was 22. My friend, Pam, has still never let me live that one down.)

I actually don’t even remember learning French. I was young, I was surrounded by French people, I wanted to talk with them teen-to-teen, and I just learned it by osmosis. I’m not trying to negate the efforts of Mr. McIntyre or Mr. Wartenby, my high school French teachers. But really… I don’t remember studying, I don’t remember making an effort. I just went to France in my summers and it happened.

So you’d think that me being here in Tanzania it would be the same – that the Swahili would just seep in.

Well… it hasn’t. At least not in any significant way. And that’s a shame, because everything I know about Swahili makes it seem like an interesting language to learn.

Swahili is a combination of Arabic and Bantu – with a few words of other languages thrown in. My most recent Swahili teacher, a fabulous gay Australian who has lived in Tanzania for 20 years really made Swahili come alive for me. There are some cool things. Like how after 200 years of sailing up and down the Swahili coast, there are only about 10 words of Portuguese that made it into the Swahili language – including the words for playing cards, wine, and masturbating (I guess we know what those Portuguese sailors were doing). And Swahili has way fewer words than most languages. For example, think about how many ways you can say “laugh” in English (giggle, kafaw, etc.). In Swahili there is only one word.

My favorite thing is what they do with new words – particularly English words - coming into the language. They just add an “i”. So if you are at a restaurant and you want the bill you just ask for the billi. If you want to go to the fancy Western hair dresser you can ask for the dressi. So I always say, when you don’t know a word, say it in English with an “i” and you have at least a 10% chance of having gotten it right!

I am not alone in this sad state of Swahililessness. The peninsula where I live – this expat wonderland – is filled with Swahili school drop outs. It is mildly amusing how we assuage our guilt at not being able to have a real conversation with locals by saying certain common things in Swahili… like we think we can fool the natives into thinking we speak better than we can while keeping our fingers crossed that after we order the magi kubwa barridi, asante sana (large cold bottle of water, thank you very much) they won’t come back and ask us if we want to drink it out of tall glasses or short glasses.

Now I’m not trying to tell you that I don’t speak any Swahili after 40 or so hours in the classroom. If you come visit me, I can fool you pretty well… getting through the basic greetings and pleasantries like a pro. But if I tell you that the local store owner has a funny accent and that’s why I didn’t understand what he said after I asked, kumi ndezi tafidali (ten bananas, please), I’m lying. Go ahead, call me on it.

Tanzanians are very protective of Swahili. Where in Kenya most people these days speak Swenglish instead of Swahili, Tanzanians guard their language as a matter of national pride.

Tanzania’s first President, Julius Nyerere, united this country around the Swahili language – encouraging Tanzanians to be Tanzanians and Swahili speakers first and whatever tribe they come from (and the language of that tribe) second. In fact, Tanzanians affectionately call him Mwalimu, meaning Teacher, because of the emphasis he put on education. When Tanzania got its independence in 1961 it was only a small elite group of people who had a secondary education, fewer spoke English, and you could actually count the number of university educated Tanzanians on your fingers!

When you think of where they started and where they are today, Tanzanians have come a long way, baby.

Me? Not nearly as far.

Pole sana.

A Tour of My World

2007-04-30T23:11:00.000+03:00

As much as I'd like to share a witty, insightful story with you today - I just don't have it in me. I'm working on it. Come back in a few days.

Meanwhile, I was playing around with Google Earth (one of the coolest things on the web in the opinion of this former geographer) and I realized that I've never really told you much about where I live.

This is a map of Africa. You can find Tanzania in East Africa - the bigish country on the right center (there is a very small yellow pin in the middle of it). Tanzania borders Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Congo, Zambia, Malawi and Mozambique - making the border police very busy, I'm sure - but also meaning that Tanzania's ports are a very important strategic asset - both for business and other more nefarious ventures.

This map highlights the various regions of Tanzania - and you can see a little bit better where Dar es Salaam is located - right on the Indian Ocean coast in a hot and humid (and when it is not raining - dusty) spot.

Here you can see Dar up close and personal. I live on the Msasani Pennisula - which is in the northern part of Dar es Salaam. Some people call "the pennisula" an expat ghetto. It is true that the majority of expats live here... where there are cooler breezes, more Western-style amenities and less malaria than other parts of town. Many people feel embarrassed about living in this sort of ghetto, but not me. I didn't come to Africa to "slum it". I'm here for the lifestyle. (And to "contribute" in the human-to-human sense.)

Here I've tried to mark some of the more important places I visit regularly on "the pennisula". You can see the Sea Cliff Hotel where the kids and I spend every Sunday at the pool, and right next door the Sea Cliff Village, where I go when I'm in the mood for a Subway sandwich (just like Jarred). I've also marked the George and Dragon, the English Pub where I've spent way too much time the last few months (but haven't confessed it to you until now). You can see the Oyster Bay Shopping Center where I shop in the Italian deli and buy my fruits and vegetables fresh off the farm. You can also see where my house is - as well as the Slipway shopping center where you can find me having a pedicure on many Saturdays.

Here you can actually see the roof of the house where Jaden, Rowan and I live. Notice that I'm just one block from the beach. (That strech of beach is the Yacht Club where South Africans try to relive their glory days of apartide - but also where you can get the best pizza in Dar.) This photos was clearly taken before my landlord built my roof deck. You can see that most of the roads are unpaved - and in fact now that it is the rainy season - a current photo would show giant potmarks!

This photos shows you my office - where I slave away every day to ensure that Tanzanians, and Randall Tobias, can have multiple sex partners "safely".

This photo also gives you perspective on my commute. It only takes about 20 minutes to get from my house to my office (on the lower left). About half-way between the two, right on the beach, I drop Jaden and Rowan at school every morning.

And lastly I just wanted to show you where Zanzibar is in relation to Dar es Salaam. As you can see... it is pretty close - a short 2 hour ferry or 20 minute airplane hop away. If you come and visit us like Jane, Marija, Ilco, Rob, Kent, Damon, Laura, Amy, Jamy, David and Lisa will be doing in May and June, I would send you here for a wonderful and exotic beach vacation.

Will we be seeing you soon?

The Club Formerly Known As Book

2007-04-21T16:52:00.000+03:00

I like belonging to things – but I’ve historically been disdainful of belonging to conventional “groups”. In elementary and high school my best friend, Liz, and I used to rail against “the man”, which in the late 1970s and early 1980s meant Izod shirts, the color pink, upturned collars, and (the worst thing of all) Preppies! This disdain for preppiness wasn’t so easy to sustain. After all, I grew up in a town that was actually mentioned in The Preppy Handbook. Nevertheless, Liz and I decided to hate the preppies (we called them goody-goods) and all they stood for – which meant belonging to the Yacht Club, going to Ballroom Dancing class, and being on the field hockey team.

We were the baddy-bads. Or rather Liz insisted that she was a baddy-bad, but I was too good to be a baddy-bad which made me a baddy-good, which was better than being a goody-bad, but not as superior as the aforementioned baddy-bad.

So you can see I belonged to a group. It just wasn’t the goody-goods – who did everything by-the book until they were in late high school and started snorting too much cocaine.

But that’s another story.

Being that I’ve never been a full-fledged baddy-bad, and that I like to belong to things, as an adult I’ve sought out groups of people like myself, who weren’t quite the conventional “most popular” types but who were cool in their own right. Cool by virtue of not being too good.

That ruled out sororities – at least where I went to college where there wasn’t an Alpha Kappa Delta Pi-esque sorority for fat girls or engineering students. (And here I’m thinking of those fabulous girls in Kentucky (or was it Tennessee) who fought back against their sorority kicking them out for being “average” in looks and above average in brains.)

I joined the College Democrats (during the Bush I years) and hung out with the anti-establishment kids, and marched for abortion rights (Bush Stay Out of Mine). Not very exciting, I know. I guess I was still afraid to give myself over completely to the baddy-bads.

But just out of college a friend and I started a book club – the first of four I helped to found. In fact, I’ve probably belonged to one book club or another for 16 out of the last 18 years – two in DC, one in NC, and one here in Dar.

A book club is great – because it is an establishment act – but you can find anti-establishment people to be in it. You can read whatever you want.

But it is a lesson in group dynamics.

At the first get-together everyone has noble intents. They want to read interesting books. They want to get to know a new group of interesting people – often who have something in common with them. They want everyone to read the books assigned. They want to have stimulating and enlightening conversations. They want a book club to fill a perceived hole in their lives.

Book clubs seem like the answer.

But of course they aren’t. They only end up reflecting real life.

Annoying people join them
Conversation-hogs join them
Some people get upset with books that they didn’t pick out (and so I say they should have never been a member of a book club in the first place)
Some people chronically pick out bad books
Some only want to read fiction, others only non fiction
Most people have every intention of finishing books but almost never ever do on a regular basis

But also… people who become your friends for life join them. That is part of what makes them so cool.

Here in Dar, I co-founded a book club with my friends’ Eric and Laurie.

We had dinner one night about two months after I arrived and spent a lot of time talking about how there is a lot of surface conversation that happens in Dar. People talk about electricity, housing allowances, household staff, and tropical diseases – but it can sometimes be hard to have deep or intellectual conversation – perhaps because those little annoyances of life are so much closer to the surface here that they are almost always the topic du jour.

Our answer?

A book club.

We gathered 10 of the coolest people we knew at the time and had our first meeting at Eric’s house about 8 or 9 months ago. It was an awesome group of interesting and intellectual people. I was excited, motivated, ready to move forward. We decided on our book club “rules” – things like how often we would meet and how we would pick books and moderate the conversation. Onward and upward…

Except…

… you can’t get 10 of the same book here in Dar. And frankly, you can’t get very many interesting books at all. We were lucky to have 3 or 4 copies of a book floating among us in any given month. If we were better planners we could have ordered them from Amazon UK (which takes about 6 weeks and costs mucho dinero) or have friends bring them out for us.

But planning was not our forte.

And low and behold… our book club began to falter.

Last month we read White Man’s Burden. It is a perfect choice for a book club where 80% of the members work in international development. But boy… it was not easy to get through. I made it to page 80…. And I don’t think that anyone else in the group made it further. Come the third Tuesday of the month – no one was “available” for book club except myself and one other person.

I was minorly despondent. Was book club dead? On life support? What would I do without a “group” to belong to in Dar?

I sent out an APB and we all gathered at my place around the dinning room table over Secunda’s lasagna and Ayesha’s fabulous salad last week.

No one wanted to book club to die. But the patient wasn’t responding to the normal treatment. We needed to try something new, something still in clinical trials.

We are now officially, The Club Formally Known As Book.

Instead of reading books we are going to read articles (Laurie has CDs of the last 50 years of the New Yorker), watch movies (all bootleg, all the time), and talk.

We all want to belong. But we don’t want to read books anymore.

We are even going to meet every other week instead of once-a-month. We want to be with each other. We just don’t want to be burdened by books that are impossible to get or that we have to rush through in order to share with the next person on the waiting list.

I feel happy. Free.

Slightly unconventional.

We are a baddy-good book club. Just different enough to distinguish ourselves – but no so much as to alienate ourselves completely from goody-good book clubs everywhere.

This is familiar territory.

Dayanu

2007-04-15T00:55:00.000+03:00

I don’t want you to think I forgot you.

I’ve been busy entertaining my parents – who just left after two lovely weeks of frolicking in the sun and ocean of Zanzibar with the kids and hanging out at the edge of my local swimming hole – on a cliff overlooking the Indian Ocean.

Coming at this time of the year was a major sacrifice for my mother – since she has always been the family hostess of a lovely Passover Seder. In fact, in the lead up to two weeks ago, every time I said or did something that pissed her off she’d (in good Jewish mother fashion) try to make me feel guilty by saying, “I’m giving up Passover for you, the least you could do is…”

Such martyrdom!

Just like Jesus – another Jew who happened to enjoy Passover.

But given that mom was making a sacrifice of a sort – traveling from Jew York to almost Jewless Dar – I needed to rise to the occasion and make an effort to throw something together. Plus, several of my local Jewish friends had already called about Passover plans. It seemed I was the planner-in-chief.

Last year I wrote you about the out-of-this-world Passover that the Jews of Dar experienced when a group of Hassidic Rabbis were dispatched from the Congo via Brooklyn by the Chabad (the pseudo-evangelical wing of Judaism) to minister to the lost Jewish souls of East Africa and provide us with Kosher for Passover matzo. I suggest you update yourselves on this story here, since really, it was one of my best blogs ever.

But this year rumor had it that the Jews of Nairobi were the lucky hosts of the Rebbes from Flatbush… so we in Dar were shit out of luck.

Knowing that my friends at Nargila – a Middle Eastern restaurant – owned by Israeli Jews with king-sized personalities and a two-pack-a-day habit usually hosted Passover for the Jews of Dar I decided to stop by one night last month to pick up some hummus for dinner and find out their Passover plans.

“The ungrateful shits!” said Penina, the matriarch of the Nargila family, referring to the Jews of Dar es Salaam.

“I host them for Pesach; I host them for Rosh Hashana. Do you think they ever call to say “thanks” or offered to pay for themselves? Never! What should I do for them? Nothing!”

“Oh,” I said, like a deer caught in the headlights. I certainly wasn’t respecting this sort of response. After all, aren’t I a Jew from Dar? Didn’t I thank her for our Yom Kippur evening? Don’t I come to Nargila and pay for her over-priced (but delicious) food? Don’t I try to keep in touch? Aren’t I coming to her now?

Dayanu.

(For you non-Jews out there, “Dayanu” means “It would have been enough”. It is a word that we repeat over and over at a Passover Seder to remind us that God went above and beyond the call of duty when “He” lead us out of slavery in Egypt, parted the Red Sea for us, gave us manna from heaven, lead us to the Promised Land, etc..)

“I will never host a Jewish holiday again,” said Penina emphatically. “The Jews of Dar are no community. Not like in Nairobi where they actually look out for each other!”

I bristled at being compared to the better Jews of Nairobi. I’m not sure why. I don’t know them.
But knowing that my mother was expecting me to come through for her I took another approach…

“Well… will you cater my Passover Seder?” I asked.

“Yes," said Penina. "For 30,000 Tsh (about $25) per person. But I don’t have any matzo. You have to get that yourself.”

We eventually discussed the menu and agreed on a catering fee. But I was left with the $64,000 question. Where would I get matzo?

From mom via New York was the obvious answer. The only problem was that mom was refusing to fly with Hebrew lettering in her bags. She was already outside her comfort zone – traveling to Tanzania on the considerably cheaper Emirates – the official airline of the United Arab Emirates via Dubai. She was not about to put products that identified her religion onboard with her. (And believe me… I tried to convince her.)

Meanwhile, Jewish friends called me about their Jewish friends who had no place to go for Passover. Could I take them, too?

Sure… bring ‘em on.

Before I knew it I was hosting 16 people for Seder – and the list was growing all the time.

Two people even came to me via Penina herself – Jews who called her looking for a Seder – who she then referred to me.

Was I going to be the epicenter of Jewish Dar? Could I play such an important role?

Me? Agnostic, semi-practicing, humanistic, my kids no longer go to the Temple pre-school me?

Well…. No.

Penina changed her mind the day before Passover. She called to say that there were too many people calling her and that she felt like she had no choice but to take her place as the convener of Jewish life in Dar.

But of course she still wanted me to pay for my 16 people. She’d cover the rest.

I agreed. It was worth it just to avoid the mess in my house.

And that same day my Mom showed up. And lo and behold, she brought forth matzo from the land of New York, and macaroons, too.

And that same day I found a huge supply of matzo in the supermarket. (Better than the supply at the lame Safeway up the block from my old apartment in Washington, DC near Dupont Circle.)

We had matzo. We had macaroons. And I even had a supply of matzo meal left behind by Jews who had already departed from Dar.

Dayanu.

I told my 16 to come for pre-Seder drinks. We had a lovely time at my house, and then drove over to Nargila, where Penina, in her own personal style, managed to insult half the attendees by ordering them where to sit – banishing the “younger” attendees (meaning people in their 20s) to the far end of the table.

Nevertheless… it was pretty extraordinary. We were about 40 Jews (and one Catholic priest who wanted the experience), sitting at a table in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. We were about to embark on a sacred ceremony practiced by our ancestors for centuries before us, and hopefully centuries after us…

The Israelis at the table wanted to read the service in Hebrew. Penina handed my father an English copy of a seriously long Hagaddah (the service book) which he couldn’t really read without his glasses.

At some point the “younger” attendees at the far end of the table pulled out their own Hagaddah and in a coup d’etat took over the “service”. Then the Israelis fought back and started up in Hebrew again.

A couple of Israeli guys sitting next to me just make jokes in Hebrew throughout the whole service. I don’t think they heard a word.

It was total chaos.

But the food was excellent.

Three hours later my family left Narglia reconnected to our history – even if it was an imperfect evening.

I called the next day to thank Penina for the evening. She told me that she was feeling better about the Jewish community and maybe she’ll have a Rosh Hashana dinner this year after all.

Whatever she decides…

Dayanu.

Penina

What the Fuck Have I Done – One Year Later

2007-03-31T09:09:00.000+03:00

Today is my blogoversary. I wrote my first post (What the Fuck Have I Done?) one year ago.

When I wrote that entry I was scared out of my mind. I had just agreed to jump into an abyss. I was preparing to move to Tanzania.

I would be lying to say that I didn’t have any idea what would be ahead of me. I had a vague idea that ex-pat life can be nice and the child care would be cheap. I had heard a constant refrain that Dar es Salaam was a family-friendly and safe post from a whole choir of people who knew someone who knew someone who lived in Dar.

I also had some friends who were pretty unhappy living in Tanzania.

So I didn’t really know what to think.

I was obsessed with the things that would be missing from my life in Tanzania… friends and family first and foremost, of course. But I was also focused on material things – like tampons and blue cheese salad dressing and Elmo DVDs.

I spent a lot of time calculating how many Super Plus, Super, and Regular tampons I would need to last me two years.

The answer is, more than I thought.

But guess what? It turns out they have things like tampons here. If I run out before my post is finished, I’ll buy some.

I can also find blue cheese salad dressing (although not my preferred brands), an infinite supply of DVDs (although not Elmo – but the kids have long since decided that Elmo is too juvenile for their advanced age of 3 years 3 months) and almost anything else I might be searching for. (But with one caveat – I might have to go to 3 stores and 2 markets before I find what I want.)

Before you think that all of my concerns were material – there were other things I was worried about….
Malaria
Sunburn
Exotic wild animals
Really large bugs
The 24 hour airplane ride out here
Living well among poverty (and all the various dimensions of that)
Electricity
Finding adequate housing
Finding a decent preschool and nanny for the kids
Making friends
Getting our friends and family to visit us here

And the most dominant concern: Whether or not I had lost my mind deciding to leave FHI after 13 years for a mega company like AED.

It was a giant leap into an abyss. I wasn’t (and still am not) a risk taker.

(Don’t tell me I am because I decided to have kids on my own. That was more of a biological/emotional/physical/need for a legacy thing – not really a thinking decision to leap. I only realized I jumped into an abyss AFTER I was pregnant.)

On March 31, 2006 I was way way way outside my comfort zone.

What the fuck did I do?

I made a decision that turned out to be wonderful for my family. The kids are thriving, our life is semi-exotic and semi-adventurous, I have all the help I need to be the best parent I can be, and finally, 11 months into this adventure, I am actually enjoying my job.

And to do my job I don’t have to leave the kids and travel for two weeks every three months like I did before we left.

That’s not to say that there haven’t been challenges.

I miss you all so much.

And the 7 months of no electricity was no walk in the park.

But we survived. And we have thrived.

And I also discovered (maybe really rediscovered) writing and my creativity. I like it. The act of keeping a blog has been good for me and helped me stay in touch with you.

This is my 67th blog entry. I don't know that I've ever managed to stick to something so religiously for so long. I'd like to thank Liz (Mom-101) for the inspiration.

But really, today is less the anniversary of Mahlers on Safari, and more the anniversary of a decision well made.

It was a great fucking decision.

Thanks for coming along with us for the ride.

And I Thought I Had Staff Problems....

2007-03-21T22:33:00.000+03:00

If you’ve been following my blog then you know all about my staff and the various dramas we’ve had along the way.

But I have to say, the last few months have been pretty calm. (I just threw salt over my shoulder.) We haven’t had any knock-em-out fights and everyone is (sort of) doing their job.

Raymond – the gardener cum pool guy just finished learning to drive (thanks to my Mom who paid for classes). I’ve got my fingers crossed that he aspires to a career driving a taxi and will eventually leave. At the moment, he mostly just keeps the guards entertained and when pushed will plant a flower or two. I suppose that – for now – that is enough.

Paul – the driver has only offered to come visit a friend in her hotel room on the weekend (off hours) once. His Jaden is growing well – but looks nothing like my Jaden. Recently he asked to borrow a million shillings – about $1000 - to help him start to build his house (on the land he finished buying with his X-mas bonus). At first I couldn’t believe the nerve! I thought, where does he think I could get that kind of money from? And then I realized – shit – I do have that kind of money. But he could never pay it back in the lifetime of my contract here. Instead I offered him $200, which will take him four months to pay back. If all goes well… I’ll loan him $200 more, etc.

Margaret – the housekeeper is really getting good at English (again thanks to my Mom who paid for classes). She is now a little bit less shy and the kids have finally (after 10 months) warmed up to her. Now if only Mom will pay for Margaret to go to housekeeping school!

Secunda – the nanny cum cook is doing a great job and is only totally crazy/paranoid once or twice a month – a very sustainable situation considering all that she does for us the other 29 days of the month. Ever since I threatened offered to hire a part time cook Secunda has been busy reading my cook books and coming out with more and more fabulous (mostly vegetarian) dishes.

Robert – the security guard had been taking computer classes and recently enrolled in school full time. He is only “working” the night shift now. (I’m sorry. Really I mean he is only sleeping during his night shift now.) Between going to school, shooting the breeze with Raymond, and sleeping on his shift, I really don’t know when he has the time to study!

Sunday – the other security guard is the newest addition to our extended family. He has been here about four months – ever since I fired Douglas who was steeling diesel fuel. Sunday is so nice he couldn’t hurt a fly – or stop a thief for that matter – but he is harmless enough and so I keep him.

Sure, we’ve had our share of drama in the Mahler household over the past year. But I can tell you that really we are doing pretty well. I have friends whose household staff chased each other around the compound with machetes until the police came and arrested them, friends who have had jewelry and other valuables stolen from inside their homes, and even one friend who came home at lunch one day to find her housekeeper sleeping in her bed. (Alone, thank god.)

Really, I thought I had heard it all, until….

My friend, Alisa, arrived in Tanzania a few months ago and spent a long time looking for the right place to live. Just three weeks ago, she finally moved into a great ground floor apartment on the ocean with a housekeeper who is the 20 year-old cousin of Alisa’s Dutch bosses’ Tanzanian wife. During the past few months, the housekeeper was actually living with the Dutch guy and his wife, waiting for Alisa to finally settle in.

Thursday afternoon, the housekeeper came to Alisa and said her head hurt, could Alisa give her something for the pain. Alisa dispensed two Ibuprofen and told her housekeeper that she should go ahead and lie down and not worry about her for the rest of the day.

Two hours later, Alisa heard cats having a fight outside her window. She walked down her hall to get a better view and realized that the sound was actually emanating from her bathroom, not outside.

Aliza opened the door to the bathroom, only to find…

The housekeeper sqatting on the floor, and a newborn baby boy screaming his head off - on the floor of the bathroom. The placenta was still inside the girl at this point. According to Alisa, the bathroom was a mess (as you might expect). It is a scene she will never forget.

Luckily, her boss, Eric, is an MD. He raced over, delivered the placenta, had Alisa boil water to sterilize scissors and dental floss, cut the umbilical cord, and pronounced the baby a healthy, full-term boy. (He has since been named, Little Eric.)

No one had any clue this girl was pregnant.

Not Alisa.

Not Eric.

Not Eric’s Tanzanian wife – cousin of the girl.

Not Eric and his wife’s housekeeper who shared a room with the girl for the two months prior.

Jerry Springer… we have a show for you.

Instead of making light of this situation I should be taking the time to educate you about the situation of women in Tanzania. As fast as Tanzania is advancing in so many ways, it still has one of the worst maternal mortality rates in the world.

Perhaps it would be enlightening if I told you that when I told this story to my colleague Abdulrazak his response was, “that’s all?”

He thought the story was going to end in the girl’s suicide. After all, babies born in secret, and without antenatal care, and out-of-wedlock, and at home, and without anyone knowing the woman was pregnant at all is not so uncommon here.

Or so Abdul says.

He also says that suicides related to the shame of all of the above are not so uncommon either.

But I’m going to save the lecture on the state of women in the developing world for another blog entry.

For now I’m just going to tell you that I’m grateful that this didn’t happen in my household. As messed up as Team Mahler can be, so far we’ve managed to avoid a hidden pregnancy and secret bathroom birth.

However, if the Mahler compound is really like General Hospital, I need to be on the lookout for a weather changing machine or an alien invasion.

But those things I think I could handle.

Idol Worship

2007-03-15T22:57:00.000+03:00

When I traveled to Namibia for the first time – about five years ago – the entirety of Southern Africa was focused on just one thing. Who was going to win South African Idol? The show was all over the TV and radio. The final few, then the final two, then the winner – it was all front page news. I didn’t get it. Not at all.

Who cares about the winner of a singing contest? (I thought) When I heard that this was an export from Brittan it all made sense. Of course – smaltzy and stupid TV.

Then the Idol franchise turned up in the US. I boycotted the first season, but somehow got suckered into the second season.

(I probably need to apologize to my colleague/lunch mates who were forced to participate in lunchroom Idol conversations.)

I must admit that I was rooting for Ruben all along – but in retrospect it does seem like he was a really poor choice for American Idol. He sounded great all the time, but there was nothing exciting about him – like pretty wrapping paper around a box with nothing inside.

I got to thinking about American Idol a few weeks ago when I recieved an e-mail from Erin, the lovely young woman who was Jaden and Rowan’s Tuesday night babysitter back in DC. We shared an interest in American Idol, and if the show was still on when I got home from wherever (usually just roaming the city aimlessly because hooray – I had the night off) we would sit and watch together. It was nice having a partner in Idolatry.

The bizarre thing about Anglo-American culture is that you can never really get away from it. Why just last week, a South African version of Deal or No Deal – perhaps the stupidest show in the world – debuted. People here in Tanzania are buzzing about it - and there is media for it all over the place. It is not often that an African has the opportunity to win $100,000 US. But as Liz recently observed “Deal or No Deal [is so damn lame that] the major dramatic question revolves around the riveting premise: Pick a number. Nope, guess again. Nope, guess again...

Liz… you’ve always had a way with words!

(BTW… I know you are wondering. Yes. The African host of Deal or No Deal is also shaved bald – it is part of the formula.)

Nevertheless, the South Africans have some major competition from the armpit of Africa (in a geophysical sense… not because it is any less lovely than anywhere else). The first season of West African Idol began a few weeks ago – and people are going nuts over the auditions. In fact, they are loving the audition shows so much that the cable TV provider here now has an all Idol-auditions, all-the-time, station going. So, if you are in need of some mind-numbing stimulation, you can turn on channel 37 and watch a full day of auditions from Abuja or Accra or Lagos.

Just shoot me now!

The judges also follow the formula. (They even sit in the same order.)

The “Randy” judge is a fat, jolly guy with an American accent (I just went online and found out that he is indeed American - but also a radio host in Nigeria) who likes to call people “dog”.

The "Simon" judge is a tough-ass queen – about as queeny as I’ve ever seen anyone here. He says nasty catty comments and generally entertains the others.

The only judge worth her post is the "Paula Abdul" replacement. She is a beautiful, exotic womyn with a capital Y! She is smart, sassy, and not nearly the dit-brain that Paula has become.

Interestingly, the contestants sing all the same songs that you’d hear on an American Idol show. I wonder why none of them try to sing African songs? Perhaps it is against the rules to be ethnic?

But then, just as I was getting into West Africa Idol I was channel surfing the other night and lo and behold, I found American Idol – running up against West African Idol on another station. The American Idol show is a few weeks behind where you are in the US. They were auditioning contestants in Seattle. On this side of the pond, they were in Lagos.

It was like Sophie’s Choice!

Which show would I choose? Should I have embraced my new African sensibility? Or was it better to stick with the show that might actually produce a global megastar.

Would it be Randy, or the Randy look/act-alike?

I couldn’t take the pressure!

And then, in switching between channel 37 (West African Idol) and channel 15 (American Idol), I happened upon E Entertainment’s coverage of Anna Nicole Smith's death/custody battle. Problem solved. For now.
_______________________________

In this blog I was going to complain that only the worst aspects of American culture end up in the media here. Between 50 Cent’s “eye candy” dance girls on MTV and Ryan Seacrest hosting both American Idol and E’s daily celebrity news program – what are the Africans to think?

I tried to comfort myself with the fact that we also get The L Word (several seasons old) and the British version of Dancing with the Stars (which I love – although I, like all other normal curious human beings, really want to watch this season’s Dancing with the Stars (American version) just to see if Heather Mills McCartney’s prosthetic leg flies off – uncovering the stash of Paul McCartney’s money she stuffed inside).

But if I have to be honest… I don’t really care so much what the African’s think – even if it is their cable provider. They’ll just have to deal.

I would miss the smaltz, and the dancing, and the singing, and the gyrating, and the gossip, and the girl-on-girl action, and the flying prosthetic legs if they didn’t carry those things.

But not the bald, shinny-headed game show hosts.

No deal.

Malaria, Malnutrition and Micronutrients

2007-03-04T20:49:00.000+03:00

I seem to be on a roll educating you, my blog readers, about my work. From the individual e-mails I’m getting (so many of you still seem hesitant to comment on my blogs for all the public to see) you seem to be interested. So I will continue in this vain today.

AED, my “new” company (in quotes because after 10 months I guess I’m not quite so new anymore), seems to like me. At least the folks in Washington have a lot of respect for my work – or so I’m told. That’s nice. I’m still working on warming to them. Pole pole (slowly, slowly) it seems to be getting better. I’m hoping that by the time I reach my one year anniversary I’ll be feeling good in my new corporate skin.

One of the things that attracted me to this project was that it also worked in the areas of child survival and malaria – two things I knew little about – but technical areas that could come in handy someday down the road in the event that they ever find a cure for HIV.

OK… I’m not holding my breath for a cure for HIV. I imagine it won’t happen in my lifetime. But the truth is that annually many more adults and children die of malaria and diarrheal diseases than HIV. In the age of HIV and avian flu and SARS, childhood diarrhea has almost disappeared from the priority list. But never fear. We at AED are working on it.

Recently the senior VP in charge of my division (of about 400 employees) came to Tanzania to work with T-MARC and also to check up on AED’s other projects. I had the honor of traveling with her up north to Arusha to meet with major regional players in malaria, malnutrition and micronutrients.

Malaria

AED has a project called NETMARK which is charged with (among other things) brining new technologies in insecticide-treated nets to the market. Tanzania has four large net manufactures – one of which puts out 600,000 treated nets per year. We went to visit the factory. Here are some photos:

These are the looms

This is where they are stitching the nets together.

Here are the nets ready to go. These were headed to a refugee camp in Darfur

Malnutrition

AED has a project called A to Z designed to work on nutrition issues. There is a whole big field of nutrition people I never realized were out there. Mostly they do therapeutic feeding (when a child is so malnourished that their parent has to bring them to live for a month in a feeding center). We are evidently considering supporting a French nutritional product that is meant for the not-so-malnourished that they need to be in a feeding center set, but malnourished enough that they need nutritional intervention under medical supervision. Their product has the very gross-sounding name (to me) of PlumpyNut. Yuck.

Another project that I work on about 5% of my time is called POUZN. POUZN is trying to introduce zinc for diarrhea treatment for children. Believe it or not, the proper dose of zinc early in a diarrhea episode can decrease childhood mortality by up to 21%. That’s a pretty effective intervention. We will be introducing a new socially marketed product in June called PedZinc. We are working on the materials right now… but look out for marketing materials with happy, healthy, plumpy babies.

Micronutrients

I bet you think that the reason we Westerners are so healthy (well free of the kinds of diseases that people here in Africa get) is because of our diets. Well, you’d be right. But it is not necessarily because we eat so many vegetables and drink the perfect amount of milk. A huge piece of it has to do with the fact that our food is fortified with tons of vitamins and minerals. Next time you have breakfast, read the cereal box and the milk. They put in extra calcium, vitamin D, various vitamin Bs, vitamin A, etc. Our food is filled with added vitamins and minerals, so much so, that most of us have no need to think about supplementing our diets with Flintstone’s multi-vitamins.

That was true for me until I moved here and our local pediatrician suggested giving the kids vitamin A drops twice a year and deworming the kids once a year - but that is another story.

Vitamin A deficiency alone contributes in a huge way to childhood mortality in Africa. Iodine deficiencies cause mental health problems. I’ve already told you about zinc.

In any case, AED has a project called Africa 2010 which works on getting flour, salt, and other basic products fortified and then working with factories to teach them how to use the technology involved in fortification.

It is so simple really, and has the potential to save so many lives.

So there you have it… Some other stuff that I'm working on.

A Picture Should Be Worth A Thousand Words of Blog

2007-03-02T19:50:00.000+03:00

I know, I know, it has been two weeks since I posted. I'm actually working on three separate blog entries at this very moment - but work has been so crazy busy (spilling into my evening hours) that I haven't had an awake moment to sit and finish a blog.

So rather than sacrifice my high standards, I thought I would go ahead and share with you some visual images of the things I'm working on at the moment.

(Plus, my mom has been on my case to explain why I've been so hard to reach lately.)

We in the Communications Department at T-MARC are launching three new campaigns in the next seven weeks. The materials I am about to show you are still in progress, mainly because there are some graphic design issues to still work through.

Mama Ushauri

A week from today we re-launch a family planning radio soap opera called Mama Ushauri (Mama Advice). Mama Ushauri takes place in the fictional peri-urban community of Goromonzi where three storylines take us deep into the lives of one couple that is delaying their first birth, one that is spacing, and one that has reached their ideal family size. Perhaps it doesn't sound very exciting at first look, but trust me, I've applied my General Hospital credentials to this one. There's a lot of shit that goes down in Goromonzi, but no evil identical twins back from the dead.

This is the invitation to the launch event we sent out today. The wife of the Prime Minister is our Guest of Honor, as well as the Director of USAID.

(This is where I'd be showing you the invite - but I can't figure out how to turn an Adobe Acrobat file into a jpeg that will be accepted by Blogger. Come back and visit on Monday to see the read thing.)

And here is a poster advertising the serial drama. We are not so happy with it - but only had a week to put out a request for bids, award and execute this. They will be better next time.

(Same problem.)

Sikia Kengele

At the end of March we are launching a faithfulness campaign (values courtesy of the US government) called Sikia Kengele: Tulia na Wako - translated as Listen to the Bell: Stick to your partner(s). The launch will be in a community that is also a popular truck stop about 2 hours from Dar. Our guest of honor will be the retired President of Tanzania, Ali Hassan Mwinyi (we want Muslims to feel that faithfulness is for them, too), the pentecostal bishop I've mentioned several times before, the Director of USAID and others. This initiative actually has a really neat implementation plan. I don't have time to tell you about it now, but it involves commissioning a brass fundi (yes... they exist) to create a set of Liberty Bell-esque bells. Stay tuned for a future blog about bell ringers and giant bell shows.

Here are some of the posters from the collection. Targeted to men... the theme is: She takes care of you, don't bring home HIV. Be faithful. Listen to the Bell. Stick to Your Partner. It sounds better in Swahili. Trust me

Doesn't this make you want to stick around and get it at home instead of going out for it?

Vaa Kondom

And finally, the Communications Team hat trick is to launch Vaa Kondom (Put it on, condom) in April. We are still waiting for word on if the President will launch it for us, but we are hopeful. This is the biggest of all the three initiatives I'm sharing with you today. We are going to launch in Tunduma - which is way the hell out of the way - on the border with Zambia - so we will be chartering airplanes to get all the dignitaries out there. But, places like Tunduma, where truck drivers sit for up to one month waiting for their customs papers to clear before they can cross the border, is where we find our audiences for the initiative... truck drivers, bar girls, sex workers, mobile business people, police/customs officers, etc. We'll be implementing outreach to these groups and doing activities in bars, etc. HIV rates are very high among these groups. Where HIV is about 7% nationally, it is up near 78% among bar girls in certain regions.

Here are some of the posters/billboards from that campaign. They feature Tanzanian sayings and are meant to be discussion starters - for those long rowdy nights when you are hanging at the bar with a group of working girls and their tricks.

And finally, I just want to say that in addition to these new initiatives, work also goes on as usual. If you've lived or worked in the developing world you'd know that "life goes on" in a euphemism for "I attend meetings".

Here is a photo that appeared on page 5 of the top English language newspaper yesterday. The cameras here love me.

Or rather, they love my boobs.

What kind a photographer takes photos from this angle? Even Angelina Jolie wouldn't look good!

And there you have it. I'm busy. But I haven't forgotten you. Three fabulous blogs will be coming your way soon.

P.S. I hate the so-called "New Blogger". The settings keep changing on their own. This entire blog was written online. There should be no changes in line spacing. In the editor all the line spacing, layout looks great but then when I push "publish" it all changes on its own. Someone who understands Blogger, please help me figure this thing out. It has been driving me batty!

Hey Baby, Come Here Often?

2007-02-18T17:08:00.000+03:00

Then

When I first moved to Dar es Salaam I wrote a blog about attending the end-of-year party for Jaden and Rowan’s school. I had only been here for a few weeks and I really didn’t know any people with kids – so I thought that the party would be a perfect opportunity for me to meet new people and organize a few play dates for the kids.

Instead I felt like I was a desperate girl at a bar, trying to get someone to take me home before last call.

It seemed like everyone was so clicky. And there wasn’t a lot of patience for a newbie like me – my desperation clearly laid out for everyone to see.

As a result, I wasn’t particularly successful. I went home with two hard-fought new numbers and eventually invited one of the women – Olga - a lovely Russian lady – over with her son for Sunday brunch and a swim in our pool. Seven members of her family showed up that morning – none of whom spoke English except for Olga.

It was like she arrived on a first date with a U-HAUL.

We haven’t had a play date since then.

Now

Oh what a difference ten months can make.

Now, I attract newbies like flies. They come to me asking for advice and seeking friendship. I’m nice to them. I try to remember how desperate I felt just ten short months ago.

But the truth is - I am sick of making new friends.

I bet you never thought you’d hear me say that – not in a million years. But alas, it is true.

Living in a vibrant ex-pat community in Africa means living in a maddeningly transient place. I was told when I moved here that people who have been here for a long time don’t particularly like making friends with those of us on short term contracts. For them, we are too much investment for too short a ride.

It used to make me mad – since there are so many interesting long-termers here. Now I understand.

Dar es Salaam is like a pick up bar. You go out, you meet someone new over the eggplants at the vegetable market, and you exchange telephone numbers. It is very likely that you will get a call within a few days. And before you know it you are on your first date. Sometimes there is a second date. Quite often it ends there. But there are hardly enough days in the week to go out with all the people you are already dating AND the first timers who pick you up/you pick up.

I’ve never dated so much in my life!

Sunday

Sunday afternoon I was sitting at the pool at the Sea Cliff and I was approached by a woman with a kid about the same age as Jaden and Rowan.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“About two hours,” I replied.

“Me, too,” she said. “We must have been on the same flight.”

“Oh no,” I told her. “You mean how long have I been in Dar? Coming up on a year.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s such a long time. Me, I’m just moving here with my husband. We’ve just arrived.”

I sat and talked with her for awhile on Sunday and we even exchanged phone numbers. But I kept my fingers crossed that she wouldn’t call.

Guess what?

She called.

She wants a date – a double date - with me and the kids.

Tonight

I am totally a B-lister here in Dar. I am neither among the most popular people, nor to I get invited to the hottest parties or hang out at the Yacht Club or the Swedish Club, or the one fancy smancy gym we have in town.

But I do have a nice wide circle of friends and acquaintances. Most of the relationships I’m having are very much on the surface. It is hard to develop deep relationships here – there’s not a lot of time – and multiple partners keep you from getting to know people really well.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve managed to make a few good friends who I can imagine knowing for the rest of our lives. As a bonus prize, one of my best friends is moving out here in a few weeks. So you can see, I am well cared-for.

I have always considered a new friend (especially as an adult) a precious thing. I always craved having more friends. I like them. I like it when they like me, too.

So it is ironic that now I am ready to pull the plug on the friendship dating scene.

When the lady from the pool called for a date earlier this evening, I told her I was too busy but she could call back in a week or so.

I don’t think I’ve ever done that before.

Is it progress? Craziness? Self-caretaking? I have no idea. I just know I’m ready to remove myself from the dating scene for awhile and get back to the people who I care about and who care about me.

I’m leaving the bar before last call and been announced.

Perhaps I’ll be back tomorrow.

Maybe not.

New friends are a blessing, but old friends are special. Thought you'd enjoy this photo of me with Mom-101 that appeared in the Mamaroneck High School yearbook - wearing the school colors and the most fashionable hairstyles of the mid-1980s.

P.S. I just thought you might like to know that this was also written in the dark on the same night as the previous post!

Hot Stuff

2007-02-15T16:21:00.000+03:00

The sweat is pouring down my fingers onto the keyboard as I write this blog. The kids are fidgeting in their beds – still asleep but too hot to be comfortable.

February is the hottest month of the year. Tonight is one of the hottest nights of the year.

And 50 minutes ago, at 8:49 P.M. East African Time the electricity went off.

Who made the stupid decision to turn off the electricity on Valentine’s Day?

It is ironic that all through the months and months of no electricity 12 hours a day, six days a week my generator – my beautiful, beloved, all-important, life-saving generator – named Barney in honor of the purple dinosaur - mostly ran as smooth as a pussy cat. (Except for the day when Raymond and Robert decided to clean it by washing it down with a hose and water which caused a fuse to short and subsequently a small fire. But that was way back in November.)

Since December, the electricity is back on. We went from almost nothing, to almost everything. For the past 10 weeks we’ve had practically non-stop, 24-hour a day electricity – with three hours off here, and hour or two there maybe once or twice a week. I almost forgot how bad it was. How bad it could be.

That was before Monday night. Monday night, as I was innocently sitting on the couch watching CNN tell me yet again how badly the US is screwing up the world, the lights went out. And this time Barney didn’t start up. Raymond tried and he tried, but nothing happened. Shit!

I could hear the hum of the generators emanating from the American Embassy houses next door and across the street. But it was their hum, not mine. It is a terribly annoying sound – one that I never really noticed before. Usually Barney drowns it out, and some other nearby neighbor is forced to suffer through the hum (actually rattle) of my generator while he or she sweets away.

It was almost 11 so I decided to go to sleep. But my room was too hot, so I decided to sleep in the living room where up until a few minutes before the air conditioner had been purring away.

I couldn’t decide… was it better to lie in the living room with the windows closed? It was stuffy, but there was still a modicum of cool air in the room. Or should I open the windows and let the hot, humid, fetid air run over me? At least the air would be moving.

Sort of.

I opted for the windows closed and then got naked down to my panties. (I apologize for the mental image. And Julia… I’ve used the word “panties” just for you.) I spread a sheet on the couch; laid on my back; and eventually through sheer will fell asleep.

About five hours later I popped awake, started by the sound of no generators.

I was a sweaty mess with a massive headache. The kids were worse. But the electricity was back on and I ran back to my room, took a cold shower, and climbed into my nice cool bed.

The next day my landlord Mr. Haji (or Mzee Haji – old man Haji – a term of respect that the kids have started using with him) came with three or four fundi who pronounced the machine in need of a major overall. Multiple parts are on order from Dubai. It will be at least another 10 days before my purple giant of a generator roars back to life.

Thank God for computer batteries. At least I can stay distracted while I sweat. Perhaps I have even entertained you with this terribly boring story.

I’m not unaware that I am, after all, living in Africa. And that compared to the way that most people live, I am over-privileged and probably just a spoilt brat for even complaining to you about two nights without electricity. But there is a reason I never joined the Peace Corps. I am just a nice Jewish girl from NY who will not apologize for wanting my basic modern conveniences.

I know a lot of foreigners in Tanzania suffering from “white man’s guilt”. I’m not one of them.

I just want the air conditioner to be running in my house on the hottest night of the year.

Barney

P.S. The good news is… if you are reading this it means I’m sitting in an air conditioned room attached to the Internet.

P.P.S Thank you to the people who tried to vote for me for the blog award. It turns out that the voting was over the day after I posted the blog. All I know is that I didn't win. But it was an honor just to be nominated. We are all winners, really ;)

For Your Consideration

2007-02-05T12:04:00.001+03:00

Lately I've switched from buying bootleg movie copies on the street to renting them for cheap at Katz Video Rental.

(Yes, I too have been wondering if we have a Jewish filmophile here in Dar. If so, maybe we can get them to open up a series of the Katz businesses I'd really like to see... like Katz Deli, or Katz Bagels. But I digress.)

I switched because as alluring as it is to have my very own video library of popular films, the bootleg copies are just too unreliable. Each time I bought a film I'd run home holding my breath - waiting to see if this copy was indeed in English (rather than Chinese or Russian), and if so, if it was a copy of a legitimate DVD or filmed in a movie theater.

In some ways, the movie theater copies are the best. It is certainly the most authentic movie-going experience, since you have real live audience reactions to the film, coughing neighbors, people getting up to go to the bathroom... But alas, the sound quality is often quite poor.

At Katz, on the other hand, the videos are always in English and usually they are good copies. In the last few weeks I've rented The Departed, Dreamgirls, Babel, Little Miss Sunshine, and Little Children. Turns out that a member of the Academy has been selling their copies to bootleggers. For each of these Oscar contenders I've been watching copies of films provided to members of the Academy for their judging pleasure. The words For Your Consideration pop up every 15 minutes or so. I love it! I'm so on the inside!

And now, it is my turn to offer you something For Your Consideration.

Liz has nominated my blog for the Most Inspiring Blog category for the Share the Love Blog Awards. Click on the link to the left and go vote for me. I have no chance of winning, but my ego won't be able to take it if I come in dead last.

Asante Sana (Thank You)

Daddy

2007-01-31T19:20:00.000+03:00

Jaden, Rowan and I have so many wonderful things. But we don’t have a Daddy.

On the surface it doesn’t seem like we are suffering as a result – especially not here in Tanzania where I have all the child care, household help, car maintaining, and gardening assistance I could ever need.

But of course, those are only some of the ways in which a Daddy would be useful – the ways in which a Daddy might be useful to me.

* * * * * * * * * *

A few months ago, Jaden started calling the father of some friends of his “Daddy.” After several explanations that Phil is Graham and Miles’ Daddy, but not ours, he stopped. But then he embarked on a month of calling a whole range of men in our lives “Daddy” – the young man who works at his pre-school, another father of one of his friends, and finally – the icing on the cake – he called my friend, Alfred, who was visiting Tanzania from FHI “Daddy”. (You need to know Al to understand why this was the “icing on the cake”.)

I was actually mildly entertained by these episodes. After all, I thought, Jaden is just trying to figure out relationships. He was asking himself, “Are all older men called Daddy?” “Do I have someone called Daddy in my life?” I don’t think he was having an existential crisis. He was just trying to figure things out.

And interestingly, he didn’t try calling any Tanzanians of color Daddy. Just the white guys.

But after the Alfred incident I knew I had to do something. I pulled out Todd Parr’s Family Book, which has been sitting on their bookshelf waiting for such an educational opportunity. I read the whole book through for both Jaden and Rowan. When we got to the page with a Mommy bird and two babies in a nest I told them, “See, this is just like our family. There is a Mommy – me. There are two babies, Jaden and Rowan.”

Jaden looked down at the image and then back up at me. He said, “Oh, a Mommy, a Jaden and a Rowan?”

I said, “Yes. Our family doesn’t have a Daddy. We have a Mommy, a Jaden and a Rowan.”

And he said, “OK”.

Since that day, now several months ago, he has not called anyone “living” Daddy. But I hear him and Rowan playing games with their dolls and they often feature a Daddy character. And that’s just fine. Good for them for working through it in an age-appropriate way.

* * * * * * *
When I put out my APB for blog topics a few weeks ago my friend and fellow single mom of twins (in crime), Becky, asked me to write about what it is like to be a single parent in Tanzania. And it got me thinking – to the point of epiphany. I am the ONLY mzungu (foreigner) single parent I’ve met in Tanzania. The only one! And in addition, as far as I’m aware, we are one of only three “non-traditional” family units that I’ve met or heard about since I got here. (The others are lesbian couples with kids.)

So then, how is it to be a single parent in Tanzania?

Wonderful. Easy. Don’t know why I didn’t move here sooner.

But how is it to be the kids of a single parent in Tanzania? Well… I can’t answer that. I suppose in another year or so, Jaden and Rowan will be able to give us thoughtful answers to that question.

Compared to the diverse patchwork of families I socialized with in Washington, it is actually pretty shocking. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. But alas, I don’t have a lot of interesting models to point to and tell Jaden and Rowan:

“See that family? They have two daddies and no mommy.”

OR

“See Bobby’s family? He has two daddies and one mommy because his parents got divorced when he was a baby.”

OR

“See Gabriel and Ruben? They are twins living with just their mommy, just like us.”

* * * * * *

I don’t want to sound like I’m dismissing the fact that it will likely be hard for Jaden and Rowan to come to terms with the fact that we have no Daddy in our lives. Since they were born, I’ve been concerned about finding men who can serve as role models for them. They have a grandpa, a biological uncle and lots of honorary uncles (mostly named, David). But none of that will substitute for a Dad when they are 10 and it is Take Your Father to School Day.

They will have feelings of loss, and maybe anger – likely directed at me. I will have to face the consequences, whatever they are, of having created them without a male partner.

It may even be worse, because they there is really no hope of ever knowing the sperm donor I used to create them. They might long to have more information about him. They might not feel like whole beings without this missing part of their history. That is the difficult truth of our situation.

I belong to an online community of other people who have used sperm donors, and kids who are the result of donor-assisted pregnancies, and I can tell you that there are kids out there who are hurting because this part of their story is missing. They are actually quite angry at people like me, who used an anonymous donor when I could have used one whose identity would be released when the kids turn 18.

I made the decision to use an anonymous donor purposefully. During the years I was working in Jamaica (on a parenting project, ironically) I met so many adults who were emotionally damaged by the fact that although they knew who their mother or father was, that person was not involved in their raising and may have wanted very little to do with them. I decided to use an anonymous donor because I didn’t want my kid(s) to have that feeling of longing – of knowing their biological father – but not having that person be part of their lives.

Really, there are so many ways I might have screwed up my kids. So I picked the thing that seemed like the lesser of two evils at the time.

I can only hope that since they are twins who share the same father, and since we know four of their half siblings, that perhaps this sort of identity crisis will be moderated in some way.

* * * * * * * * * *

The right-wing worries about families like mine because they think that kids in non-traditional families are missing something.

Recently I followed a link to a Today Show piece that showed some helmut-headed lady telling the new hostess who replaced Katie Couric that using a sperm donor, as a single woman, was a selfish act since children can’t possibly be healthy and happy without a father in their lives.

(When I see them out there on TV telling me that I’m a bad mother for having created my children without the help of a man, I take solace in the fact that 50% of their marriages will end divorce.)

But really, when you are surrounded by non-traditional families, you feel like you are missing very little. When you can teach your children that families come in all shapes and sizes, and when you live in a diverse community, you have more to celebrate than to miss.

Right now I’m just trying to do my best to ensure that they are missing as little as possible. And I hope that they will learn to celebrate the fact that their family is different from a lot of others – and that can be interesting and cool. As mothers, as parents, that is all that we can do.

In my opinion.

Jaden and Rowan my someday teach me that my opinion is wrong – as teenagers are apt to do with their parents. So be it.

The News From Dar

2007-01-22T10:47:00.001+03:00

Every morning we at T-MARC get about 10 newspapers – four of which are in English.

Up until recently I almost never read the newspaper here. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It’s just that I couldn’t figure out how to get it delivered to my house. (There is no formal delivery service or hotline number you can dial). You have to know someone who knows someone who independently delivers newspapers in your neighborhood and it turns out that I don’t know someone who knows someone who delivers in my neighborhood).

Besides, I get the most important local news from my household staff anyway. They keep me apprised of exciting tidbits like when the brownouts are going to become more frequent (because the water was is low at the reservoir or any other number of reasons) and why we waited two hours for the ferry to cross to South Beach (because it had an engine fire and was stuck in the middle of the channel for 4 hours). And for the international stuff I read the New York Times online every day and listen to BBC Africa every morning.

Nevertheless, I live here in Dar and see the value of keeping apprised of local happenings. Despite numerous requests join the office distribution list for the newspapers, somehow they never made it to me. That is until recently, when in a moment of PMS I complained bitterly during a staff meeting that the administrative staff was not taking adequate care of me, the newspapers being a case in point.

Now, since last week, when I walk into the office in the morning, there are four English language newspapers sitting on my desk. Four. And because I made such a big stink, not only do I have to read them all (or look like I’ve read them) but I need to read them within an hour and then pass them on to the rest of my colleagues on the distribution list.

For a few days this was a burden – that was until I discovered how entertaining the newspapers are here.

Most of the newspapers are a mix of well-reported international news (albeit they just copy Reuters articles) and sometimes funny, sometimes scary local pieces.

This past Thursday the newspapers featured a really thoughtful local piece on the death penalty, a pretty good rap up of the Golden Globes results, and a well-done Reuters article about the resignation of Israel’s military chief.

Also in the news were the following articles:

Witchcraft Accusations

Two women, Milembe Lumanija (28) and Mariam Ally (35), both residents of Isangijo Village, Keseasa Ward in Magu District, Mwanza Regon were on Monday this week arraigned in court.

Before the District Magistrate, the Public Prosecutor, Assistant Inspector of Police Raphael mselle, claimed that the suspects were confronted with two offences: being found with government trophies and being involved in witchcraft.

Reading the charges against Mariam, Inspector Mselle claimed that the suspect was caught on January 11th at Isangijo Village in possession of a lion’s claw worth Tsh 450,000 contrary to the law. She was also found with instruments signaling that she deals in witchcraft.

Reading the charges against Milembe, Msella told the Magristrate-in-Charge of Magu Urban Primary Court, John Methusela (working on behalf of the District Magistrate who was on leave) that the suspect was caught in possession of a lion’s skin (hide) worth Tsh. 450,000; four hartebeest’s skins worth Tsh. 150,000 and a hyena’s skin worth Tsh. 200,000 on Janurary 11th at 1:00 p.m. at Isangijo Village.

Msella claimed further that Milembe was charged for another offence of being involved in witchcraft after she was found with a divining board, ankle bells and a calabash, contrary to legislation.

Both accused were not required to answer anything as the magistrate had no power to hear such charges legally. They were returned to remand prison until January 29th when their case will be mentioned again.
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Kids – How to Bring Them Up?
By Wendo Dickson
Dodoma

It has been observed that a decline in ethics has added to parents and guardians’ inability to discipline their children these days, thus worsening the spread of HIV/AIDS.

Dodoma Deputy Mayor, Jafari Mwanyemba, put this forward on Monday when he opened a seminar on AIDS for suburban leaders and others, in Dodoma.

Mwanyemba said that the AIDS problem has been increased by parents and guardians failing to tell their children off when these run into danger and letting them go on with it, scared they will commit suicide if punished.

He himself admitted that he has been unable to tell his daughter off for wearing dresses of a kind contrary to Tanzanian ethics, “Many times have I seen my daughter wearing attire foreign to our morals, but I daren’t rebuke her or get angry in case she kills herself,” said the Deputy Mayor.

Mwanyemba advised parents to find alternatives for warning their children to distance themselves from AIDS and temptation, like discussing things in a friendly way.
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Kenyan’s Celebrate as Obama Eyes White House
Nairobi

Kenyans rejoiced yesterday after Barack Obama plunged into the US presidential race, saying if the youthful senator for Illinois wins the White House he will not forget his African roots.

Obama, who was born in Hawaii to a Kenyan father and white American mother, was greeted like a long-lost son in August when he visited his ancestral village in the remote western Kenya. His vow on Tuesday to “change our politics” with a campaign that could make him the first black president in U.S. history was greeted with cheers of joy and pride on the streets of the capital Nairobi.

“Obama can win,” Giddings Ochanda, a trainee medical technician, told this reporter.

“He has experienced a hard life as an African growing up in the United States, and that experience will make him a good leader for everyone. It will be good for Kenya-U.S. relations.”

Others were overjoyed that someone they saw as a “fellow” African could aspire to the world’s top job.

“If an African can make it to the White House, it will show Africans anywhere can make it,” said office worker Moreen Chirchir. “It will show we can make it.”

When the 45-year-old Obama visited Kenya last year, he was welcomed with a carnival atmosphere and cheering crowds thronging his motorcade.

Despite his efforts to play down local expectations during that trip that his role as a U.S. senator would have an immediate impact in Kenya, many still revered him as one of their own who had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

Obama’s father grew up herding goats before studying in America and then returning to Kenya to become a noted economist.

“He has the people at heart,” said Nairobi teacher Leah Alisa.

“He will have American interests as his priority, and he should, but he will change their foreign policy,” she said.

“He won’t forget Africa.”
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And by reading this blog… neither will you!

As an extra special bonus - here is a photo from my birthday party last week. In it you can see a Tanzanian, a Dutch woman, a Swedish woman, two Brits, a woman from the Philippines, some lesbians, a gay man, and, of course, the birthday girl. Long live diversity, it is the spice of life!

What Now?

2007-01-15T17:49:00.000+03:00

Have you ever reached a place in your life where you stop, look around, and wonder:

What now?

Sometimes those moments represent major turning points in your life. Other times, they are mini-moments. They need to be recognized, contemplated, soothed, and then usually you can move on. Usually…

I’m having a confluence of “What now?” moments. Anyone who stepped back and looked at my life over the last 10 years or so would be pretty impressed with the speed at which I’ve been living life.

Three examples:

Mama Wa Wile is now Mama Wa Wile Na Tatu. Jaden and Rowan turned three last Monday. It feels both like the three shortest years and the three longest years of my life. The decision to have a child, the race to get pregnant, the worries and joys of a twin pregnancy, and then the craziness of the early days and the toddler years (which although are not over yet, have certainly changed with the introduction of full sentences) – it all passes through my memory like a giant whirl. The sleep deprivation has resulted in a giant black hole in my brain.

So they are three years old. The worst of the craziness is behind us – at least until they turn 13. So now what?

I’ve been in Tanzania for 8 months. From the first (and only) interview I had for this job (in early December 2005) things started moving quickly. I left my job of 13 years. I negotiated terms for a new job. I traveled out to Tanzania to arrange my life. I ran home to pack it all up. I came back out with toddlers and mother in tow. I was asked to save a project. It is saved. (Well sort of, but although people like to give me credit for that it wasn’t really me.) I went back to the US for 10 days in September to wrap up my old job. I had family and friends visit for safari, beach, etc. I went back to the US for 12 days in December – and it was really like a visit – not going home.

So I’m in Tanzania. I’m not going anywhere for at least another year and a half. So now what?

I’m turning 39 on Wednesday. My youth was mostly fun and harmlessly experimental. My early and mid-career was filled with adventurous travel, exotic locations, an occasional celebrity, and wonderful, wonderful friends. I got degreed. I embraced my 20s, I embraced my 30s. I’ve never felt that age was something that needed to limit me or push me. (Well… perhaps with the exception of my ovaries. But let’s face it, those are shutting down now, too – making the three vials of “just in case” sperm still sitting on ice at the doctor’s office inconsequential.)

So I’ve done a lot, studied a lot, and seen a lot. I’ve developed meaningful adult relationships. I’ve reproduced. I’m 39. So now what?

Those of you that know me well know that I’ve never been good at uncertainty. Since I was a teenager – maybe even before – everything has been well planned, like an army preparing for war. (And not under the leadership of George W. Bush. Rather like one of those more successful WWII generals who I can’t seem to name at the moment.)

But for the first time in my life I honestly can’t tell you what next.

And that is making me uncomfortable.

One of my best friends, David Letiecq, introduced me to the concept of mindfulness several years ago during his journey into Buddhism. He told me that when I was surrounded with too many inputs I should try to sit still and be mindful and that maybe the answer or the next step would come to me from the Universe.

So that’s what I did. I’ve used the opportunities provided by New Years Revelations and down time at home to sit still and be mindful. And I think I actually got a message from “the Universe” addressing the “now what” problem.

The message was…

You just need to fucking chill out.

(BTW, fucking was emphasized - by the Universe - for those of you who don't like it when I curse.)

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In other news... I'm still taking your blog suggestions - see the entry below.

Enough about me. What do YOU want to know about me?

2007-01-11T23:03:00.000+03:00

I think I've reached an impasse.

I have writer's block.

Actually, I don't quite have writer's block, as I've started at least three blog entries over the past few days, but I can't seem to complete any of them. I'm not convinced that they are going to be interesting or witty enough. So I'll sit on them a while longer.

It is pretty pressured - trying to write a blog at least once a week. In order to keep up your fan base - to make sure they they don't forget about you - you need to produce. And it helps to produce interesting tidbits that people can tell their friends about... "oh, well I've heard that in Tanzania they...."

Since March 31st, 2006 I've produced 54 blog entries - if you include this one. Back last year, I would have never imagined that I could have been this productive. But the truth is I've enjoyed writing for you and for me. It helps me process what I'm experiencing, keeps you up-to-date with my thinking and activities, and even gives me brief glimpses of fame (of the one minute variety).

But now I'm reaching out to you. I'd like to know what you'd like to hear next. Is there some aspect of living in Tanzania, working in the developing world, raising a pair of three year-olds, managing a crazy household staff and even nuttier workplace that you'd like to know more about? Is there another angle you'd like to see me cover?

By writing back to me, I'll also be able to know who out there is listening. I know there are a lot of you who are silent. Most of you only respond directly to my e-mail, rather than via comments on Blogger. That's fine. Just let me know you are there and what you want.

I'll make you a deal. You request it, I'll write it. I'll try to make it interesting enough for everyone to enjoy. And I'll give you credit for the topic.

Thank you in advance! You are awesome.

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And as an extra treat... here is a photo of Jaden and Rowan on their 3rd birthday, January 8.

New Years Revelations

2007-01-03T21:18:00.000+03:00

A friend recently told me that instead of New Years resolutions she has New Years revelations. She spends December and January waiting for the revelations – as they are hard to predict and don’t come on command. But once a revelation comes to her she immediately knows what it is – and it is always something helpful or insightful – something that helps her reflect on the status of her life as it currently is.

Although skeptical at first, I thought that this approach to New Years might let me off the hook from coming up with a plan that I would just fail at anyway. Since past New Years resolutions have included going on a diet and giving up Diet Coke (although these sound conflicting they happened in different years) – neither of which was successful for more than several months – I decided this year to wait and watch for my revelation.

Lo and behold… during my time in New York (including two 26 hour travel periods) I had a couple of revelations – all but one of which I am happy to share with you here…

Revelation One: Although I can easily switch the side of the road I drive on, I now walk on the opposite (if you are in the US or continental Europe) side.

This revelation should have come to me earlier since I kept running into people on the street in Larchmont (my home town). But alas, it was in the airport in Amsterdam – with Jaden, Rowan and I walking three abreast, that I realized that it was ME who was going against the flow, not them. While this might not seem like a giant revelation to you, to me it meant that I am now acclimated to living in a left-driving country – and that’s just not right.

Revelation Two: Not everyone in the world works in development or health and that makes them intrinsically interesting. This is a corollary to, Most people don’t talk about electricity (or the lack thereof) during every conversation.

Two wonderful evenings in NY I went into the city to have dinner with good friends and THEIR friends. These were two wonderful meals (one Spanish, another Japanese – both of which are hard to come by here) and they were accompanied by really interesting people who do things that don’t involve international development and who didn’t talk about the inability to find blue cheese salad dressing in the supermarket or the fact that Cheerios cost $10 a box. The first meal featured people who work in the media and I learned about different types of production jobs and what they entail. The second dinner featured a gay couple who have been together for 26 years. One was a New York State Representative for a big chunk of NYC, the other is the Special Events Coordinator for the American Ballet Theatre. We talked about interesting and new topics – such as the “three I’s” in NYC politics (Ireland, Italy and Israel), and who is the up and coming male ballet dancer at ABT who prances just like Baryshnikov (Angel someone-or-other – just in case you are interested).

Am I rambling here? Well my point is that these people (and I’m including all the friends who visited me in this) were really interesting and I got to talk about things other than health and development which RARELY happens here in Dar. I didn’t realize how small my world had become – intellectually that is. But guess what? It IS small.

(Before my Dar friends get upset at this – I’m not criticizing the wonderful conversations we have at dinner – but if you think about it – I’m sure you are aching to have dinner with people who know nothing about the 2-7-10 goals.)

Revelation Three: I was burnt out.

You probably already figured that out from the last post I wrote before I left Tanzania for vacation. But I didn’t realize it until I had told friends for the 100th time about the challenges of working in this environment. When I wrote that post I think I started the process of healing from my burnout. Being the in US and not working for more than two weeks has been therapeutic. I’m back in Tanzania now. We’ll see how that goes.

So there you have it. I’ve revealed my New Years revelations to you.

What are yours?

Mahlers on safari in Connecticut - at the Norwalk Aquarium