6.13.2007
Living
Well, despite appearances, I did not get on a plane at the beginning of May and fly off the face of the earth. No, I landed safely in Arusha, Tanzania and began work the next day. The last month has been a torrent of learning and new experiences—Swahili vocabulary, new accounting software, driving on the left and off-road, meeting new people, searching for old friends, setting up my new life, the one I always wanted.
My work is awesome. In the morning, I arrive early to check emails that came in overnight, and to be there to greet everyone as they come in. We have five Tanzanian field officers, who run our programs in the field. They are amazing—outspoken, very bright, and committed to their work and to the communities they serve. Our counseling team is comprised of a portly older man, a grizzled Rastafarian, and a young Kenyan woman with a sweet smile. We have two professional drivers and a full-time mechanic who make up a masculine, jokey crew. We have a guard at night and a part-time cleaner who comes twice a week. Before I arrived, the entire staff minus one counselor climbed a steep and treacherous peak in Masai land. Erica, the Volunteer Programs Manager from California, organized the trip and in a reflection of her fun personality, made certificates congratulating everyone on reaching the top of the Mountain of God. The last set of characters are our three trucks—old Landrovers named Bobby and Bongo and a Landcruiser—each with their own quirks and personalities that can make or ruin everyone's day.
In the office I work on monitoring, I design program evaluations, I update the calendar, I enter receipts, I write proposals and emails and budgets. Sometimes I run errands in town; sweating in line at the bank, buying office supplies in dim shops, waiting for a sluggish photocopier. Arusha is the same as it always was, but a bit nicer—the streets bustle with vendors and businesspeople and laborers, but these days there are more tourists around to divert the truly annoying hangers-on. With a fast stride, no eye contact, and a few sentences in Swahili, I can usually lose them within half a block.
Away from the office and out of town is even more interesting. I jump on a truck with one of the field officers to follow up our school peer education program, driving for miles past scrubby trees on a dusty track, until suddenly we reach a neatly swept classroom block with hundreds of students milling around and desperate, well-dressed teachers stranded miles from anywhere. We conduct community health worker training on a rainy day, barely making it up a slippery mountain road to meet six serious people in their Sunday best, thoughtfully taking notes as we explain the program. We conduct HIV testing at a Masai market outside of town. Outside, people draped in red and blue blankets sell goats, cows, bananas, cooking pots, soap. Inside, in a hot little office, I prick work-hardened fingers, and capture drops of blood for the test. The simple strip works like a pregnancy test—if the second line appears within a few minutes, the person has HIV. That second line is a heartbreaker every time.
At night, after work, there are a few things to do in Arusha. At the house where I'm staying, we observe the nightly dramas of two cats, one dog, and eight blind puppies. If we go out, there are excellent Indian restaurants and open air grills serving marvelous chicken, roast bananas, and fish grilled with spicy cabbage in foil. There is a backpackers bar that does a semblance of Mexican food, three Chinese restaurants, and the fancy tourist hotels for a break from it all. Some of the more recent, and more surreal, additions to the Arusha nightlife include a fully-equipped movie theater with cushioned seats and popcorn and movies from a month ago, and a tiny karaoke bar with Japanese snacks and karaoke videos in Japanese, English, and Swahili. The latter is always packed.
I am looking forward to the coming months—getting deeper into the work, driving the big trucks, finding my own place and moving in and making it my own. It is sad to be far from people I care deeply about, and to feel too immersed here to email as much as I would like. I can't deny that I'm already looking forward to the Christmas break. But I also can't deny that I have the life I was looking for.
My work is awesome. In the morning, I arrive early to check emails that came in overnight, and to be there to greet everyone as they come in. We have five Tanzanian field officers, who run our programs in the field. They are amazing—outspoken, very bright, and committed to their work and to the communities they serve. Our counseling team is comprised of a portly older man, a grizzled Rastafarian, and a young Kenyan woman with a sweet smile. We have two professional drivers and a full-time mechanic who make up a masculine, jokey crew. We have a guard at night and a part-time cleaner who comes twice a week. Before I arrived, the entire staff minus one counselor climbed a steep and treacherous peak in Masai land. Erica, the Volunteer Programs Manager from California, organized the trip and in a reflection of her fun personality, made certificates congratulating everyone on reaching the top of the Mountain of God. The last set of characters are our three trucks—old Landrovers named Bobby and Bongo and a Landcruiser—each with their own quirks and personalities that can make or ruin everyone's day.
In the office I work on monitoring, I design program evaluations, I update the calendar, I enter receipts, I write proposals and emails and budgets. Sometimes I run errands in town; sweating in line at the bank, buying office supplies in dim shops, waiting for a sluggish photocopier. Arusha is the same as it always was, but a bit nicer—the streets bustle with vendors and businesspeople and laborers, but these days there are more tourists around to divert the truly annoying hangers-on. With a fast stride, no eye contact, and a few sentences in Swahili, I can usually lose them within half a block.
Away from the office and out of town is even more interesting. I jump on a truck with one of the field officers to follow up our school peer education program, driving for miles past scrubby trees on a dusty track, until suddenly we reach a neatly swept classroom block with hundreds of students milling around and desperate, well-dressed teachers stranded miles from anywhere. We conduct community health worker training on a rainy day, barely making it up a slippery mountain road to meet six serious people in their Sunday best, thoughtfully taking notes as we explain the program. We conduct HIV testing at a Masai market outside of town. Outside, people draped in red and blue blankets sell goats, cows, bananas, cooking pots, soap. Inside, in a hot little office, I prick work-hardened fingers, and capture drops of blood for the test. The simple strip works like a pregnancy test—if the second line appears within a few minutes, the person has HIV. That second line is a heartbreaker every time.
At night, after work, there are a few things to do in Arusha. At the house where I'm staying, we observe the nightly dramas of two cats, one dog, and eight blind puppies. If we go out, there are excellent Indian restaurants and open air grills serving marvelous chicken, roast bananas, and fish grilled with spicy cabbage in foil. There is a backpackers bar that does a semblance of Mexican food, three Chinese restaurants, and the fancy tourist hotels for a break from it all. Some of the more recent, and more surreal, additions to the Arusha nightlife include a fully-equipped movie theater with cushioned seats and popcorn and movies from a month ago, and a tiny karaoke bar with Japanese snacks and karaoke videos in Japanese, English, and Swahili. The latter is always packed.
I am looking forward to the coming months—getting deeper into the work, driving the big trucks, finding my own place and moving in and making it my own. It is sad to be far from people I care deeply about, and to feel too immersed here to email as much as I would like. I can't deny that I'm already looking forward to the Christmas break. But I also can't deny that I have the life I was looking for.
Hit Counter
