Monday and Tuesday were work days. Woke up at 7:30am, arrived at the park around 8:30am. By 9am we were in full force painting, scrubbing, cleaning, and repainting. At first I was a little bit discourage because I felt there was so much to do in so little time, I thought were weren’t going to finish on time. But we worked hard, and the members of the community helped a lot too. The heat was intense, which made it more exhausting. However, after a hard day of work, we went to the beach one day and to the Roaring River the next. It was so rewarding to take these breaks after hard work. It was even more rewarding when the Governor General (GG) complemented us for our work at the park.

It was so inspiring to see everyone working so hard for this once in life time occasion. The Governor General came to Petersfield and saw with his own eyes the hard work the AOC has done for the past 27 years. Since their formation, members of the AOC have met every Thursday night to come up with innovative ideas on how to improve their community. I greatly admire their sense of dedication, determination, and diligent work, and I know the GG was impressed with them too.

10 of those 27 years, Amizade has had a partnership with AOC. We were able to explain to the GG a little bit about Amizade and the successful partnership we have with them. He seemed very impressed with the amount of students that come to Petersfield for volunteer work (and also for some fun). And it was very important that he heard and saw it from actual volunteers and not just through pictures. The fact that we were there for his visit meant a lot for the AOC because Village Tourism is one of their greatest accomplishments.

Words could not express the meaning of the Governor General’s visit. For most of the residents in Petersfield, it was a dream come true. I am extremely grateful to have been part of such important occasion. This unexpected trip has been one of the best I have had in my life. Hopefully, I will go back someday, because I know I will be received with arms wide open.

-Cassandra Chaire, Amizade Intern

Have you ever wondered where your food comes from? Do you know the farmers who grow it or the chef who cooks it? When going to a restaurant in the United States, one rarely has the chance to meet the chef or see the kitchen. Knowing the farmer who sweat over the crops which make up that meal has also become increasingly difficult in our complicated consumer economy. In recent years, there have been pressures to change this dynamic from ideas such as local food and fair trade movements. However, I do not know if I will ever have a relationship with a chef or farmer at home and as clearly see where my food is coming from, like I do here.

My first glimpse at the local food economy was through my service site, MAVUNO. I am working on a project called the Food and Seed Security Project, which is teaching sustainable organic farming practices to farmers in the Karagwe district. I have had the chance to visit many of these farmers, see their plots, and glance at their farm record books, which has given me a rare look into their everyday lives. Through these various visits to the farms and serving on MAVUNO’s demonstration plot I have grown to understand the work it takes to have successful crops and how stressful and tedious the process can be. I feel that having these experiences and gaining this understanding has opened my eyes and made me more conscientious when it comes to consuming here.

The second encounter in understanding this food cycle I have had was seeing how our three meals a day are prepared. Egbert, our jolly kind-hearted waiter and cook, was kind enough to allow me to observe him as he fixed our breakfast and lunch. On a normal day, Egbert is not the only person cooking our food at Roida Annex, the local restaurant from which we receive our food, but this Monday was not normal. It was Easter Monday, which meant that Egbert was the only employee who had a job to perform. I was pleased that I could help him on one of his hardest days.

I awoke at 4:20am to get dressed and ready to meet Egbert to begin breakfast at 5:00am. I walked in the dark to town and thought to myself, “This is Egbert’s life; starts before sun-up and ends after sun-down.” I arrived at Roida Annex around 5:15am and waited until 5:45am for Egbert to arrive, in the spirit of the traditional Tanzanian way of living. I watched him work tirelessly under the dim glow of two florescent lights, using his head lamp for additional aid. I was in awe at how at peace he seemed with his work and how being the only one working today did not seem to bother him.
We began by making the charcoal fire, adding hot coals leftover from last night to fresh charcoal. Using a shovel and a stick, Egbert gets one burner started. He cleans up the dusty ashes he has dropped in the process with a hand broom made of straw. After retrieving more fresh charcoal another burner is fired up.

It is now 6:05am and Egbert washes pots to use while the fire warms. This would normally not be his job, but today he must do everything. Chai ya rangi (or black tea) is our first project. He adds fresh lemongrass tied in a bundle, a small amount of powdered tea leaves, and pulverized fresh ginger to water and allows it to boil. It is amazing how three simple ingredients can make something so tasty.

Chipsi (like fried potatoes) are up next. Using about fifty small potatoes, he goes to work peeling them and placing them in water so they do not turn brown, just like I have watched my mother do since I was a child. After they are all peeled he cuts them into thin slices to be fried and places them in another pot of clean water to sit until the oil is ready. This was the one dish I was allowed to help prepare, even though Egbert was not very happy about it. I sliced a few potatoes, which is more than I expected him to allow.

6:40am and the chai ya rangi is complete as birds begin to sing and the sun begins to peek through the holey roof. Egbert grabs a few eggs and puts them in some water with a little salt to boil, which again reminds me of days in the kitchen with my mom. Our next endeavor was probably the most fun, making popcorn! We begin by heating a small bit of oil in a pot and adding some salt. Next the kernels are swirled around in the mixture and placed on the fire. Egbert stirs them constantly until they begin to pop. At this point, a silver platter is placed over top of the pot to keep the popcorn from flying across the room. This was the moment when I had my first feeling of guilt. My kitchen at home is filled with gadgets and utensils for all sorts of purposes, yet Egbert is being creative and using what little equipment he has available to make great food.

After washing some fruit and pouring everything into hot pots, we pack Egbert’s basket and walk to the taxi stand. Had I not been along for the day, Egbert would have ridden a piki piki (motorcycle), holding a large basket and bag all the way to our guest house.
Upon returning to our guest house and serving breakfast to everyone, I had a real sense of accomplishment, not because I had actually done a ton of work, but because I felt like I understood better the amount of work it takes to feed our group every day. I also think Egbert appreciated my interest in wanting to understand his every day operations and was eager to share it with me. Egbert returned to his home around ten to wash clothes and I took a nap, already exhausted from the morning’s endeavors.

I returned to the restaurant around 11:35am. Egbert already had the burners going when I arrived and was in the process of chopping onions, green peppers, and carrots for various dishes. We made pasta, which was surprisingly similar to the way I cook pasta at home minus the coconut, which I think I will try in the states.

When the pasta was finished Egbert created a make-shift warmer, sort-of like something they would use in the catering business, by placing a few warm coals in a burner and sinking the pot down inside and placing a silver platter on top as a lid. Again, I was brought back to the guilty realization of how spoiled I am at home with all the appliances and gadgets I have available in my kitchen and how unnecessary they are. Another instance of this was watching Egbert use a thick cardboard of sorts as pot holders.

The spinach, peanut sauce, and beans were all simmering at this point and eventually some rice would be added as well. As soon as these things were finished we packed up. Egbert went to buy juice and also climbed the tree behind the restaurant to shake the branches for mangoes. Again, I felt a great sense of pride in being able to spend this time trying to understand the life of a Tanzanian who relies on food as a means of monetary survival. Egbert also, for the first time, sat down and enjoyed this meal with us. I wonder if this resulted from the fact that he felt more comfortable because I made an attempt to understand his work and his intentions. Normally he eats whatever is left over at the restaurant with the other workers. I hope he continues to feel comfortable enough to enjoy mealtimes with us.

Spending the day with Egbert helped me to understand the effort that goes into and the process by which our food is created every day. I was truly humbled by what I witnessed, from the amazing creations that were made with so few resources, to a man’s devotion to a workplace that he truly loves. Egbert, over the past few months has become more than our waiter and cook, he has become our friend. He traveled with us to the mountain where we spent a night under the stars, and while he supplied our dinner and breakfast, he was there because we wanted his companionship. We spend hours after meals helping him wash dishes, singing, dancing, or making crazy faces. I think we are so fortunate to have been able to cultivate this relationship with the man who prepares and brings us our food. It gives us a unique opportunity to appreciate what we are consuming three times a day and understand its origin. Hopefully this conscientiousness about consumption and wastefulness will be carried with us as we return home in a few short weeks.

This story begins with a woman sitting on a long, plain, wooden bench in an ordinary room in Kayanga town. The room was once painted a yellow-tan color but has since been decorated in scuffs, scratches, and dirt. The paint is rubbed off in places, and the ceiling is home to handfuls of wasps, migrating from their main colony to smaller ones nearby. The woman sits with her feet firmly on the concrete floor, her back to a wooden door latched with a silver and gold padlock. She, like many women from across the Karagwe District of North-Western Tanzania, has travelled from her home and family to sit in this room. The room is plain, unremarkable. But it is in this room that women are heard. This room, at WOMEDA, is where she has come to share her story and to get help.
WOMEDA, Women Emancipation and Development Agency, is a non-profit organization dedicated to assisting and supporting women with regards to legal rights and gender equality in the community. The woman of our story sits in the WOMEDA office, facing the social counselor who is tucked in behind her desk. The desk is by far the liveliest object in the room. It is a rich brown wooden desk overflowing with papers, folders, and notebooks, some of which spill onto the floor. The keyboard is pushed to the side, and the computer is covered by stacks and files. By its posture, it is clear that it is the least important of the desk’s occupants. The counselor shifts some of these piles to reveal a phone, keys, a stapler, 3 boxes of staples, and the WOMEDA official stamp with purple ink. Once she is prepared with pen and paper to document the session, the woman on the bench shifts forward, elbows on her knees, and begins her story with a name, age, marital status, number of kids. As she exhales and allows herself to open up to another woman, her story develops and brings to life struggles, hardships, and inequalities as well as beauty, strength, and passion. The burden of these truths overwhelm her and she glances away, towards the single window in the room, covered by pink and orange curtains patterned with flowers and bamboo. She takes another breath to steady herself, but her tears betray her. “Don’t cry. How can they take you seriously if you are cying?” the social worker gently insists before they work their way towards determining the best action plan for this particular client. Maybe she is given a letter to summon her husband into the office or a referral to the tribunal in her ward. Either way, a plan is set in action to change the woman’s circumstance. It might be a long road, but at WOMEDA she has finally been given a voice. With that voice, and through sharing her story, she has been given hope for progress.

At WOMEDA, telling one’s own story is essential to addressing the problem at hand, whether that is a marital, family, land rights, or legal case. The exchange of stories as a means of learning about and understanding our new community is also a recurring theme in my personal growth and in our group of Amizade students. As a temporary member of the WOMEDA community, I am privileged with the opportunity to sit and listen to counseling sessions, meet women from around the district, and hear their stories. I chose to share the story of WOMEDA—an organization that gives thousands of women a voice—with you in hopes of encouraging a ripple effect of awareness that simply begins with a compelling story but has the power to initiate and support progress and change.

March 18th was a beautiful morning with sun and a cool breeze. Seven students and two teachers climbed into a boat heading to an island off the Bukoban coast to visit the burial site of ancient kings. What they were not aware of however, was how this boat ride would be like nothing they would be prepared for. As the long, wooden fishing boat set off from the coast a line of swirling black clouds approached at high speed. Soon the water became choppy, the wind roared, and the occupants of the vessel were struck by wave after wave of water. This was by no means the end of this fateful journey. These conditions were met by varying emotions ranging from all out adrenalin filled shouts every time a wave crashed on them, to singing classic songs like: The Sun Will Come out Tomorrow, My Girl, Row Row Row your Boat, It’s Raining Men and many other water related songs. As we sat in t-shirts and shorts hoping that it would all just end we sang our hearts out trying to stay positive. With the looming threat of bilharzias on our mind (A disease carried in water that can cause sickness or in extreme cases death, so water splashing into our mouths as the waves crashed over us was excellent). Caroline looked as though murder was on her mind every second of the trip, Joyce huddled for warmth as she had only worn a tank top and shorts, Juan forwent the trivialities of such things as a shirt and spent half the journey shirtless. As we neared the island the rain began (yes, all of this misery was before the storm had actually begun). This rain came pelting in like tiny hail stones, making a miserable situation downright awful.
Finally we reached the island as only we knew how, by jumping out of the boat into even more water and sloshing our way up the hill to get to the town. At long last, the terrible 20 minute journey was over as we huddled in a bar, trying to get warm any way possible. We wrung out our cloths, jumped around, and began a mini dance party, in the middle of this bar, during a storm. This ritual of dancing and singing at the top of our lungs continued for some time as we tried to warm ourselves as much as possible. At one point a man brought in a dumbbell (It was an iron bar with a bucket of cement on either side as the weights) and the guys started to work out to get some warmth. Finally the storm passed and sunshine pervaded the soaked landscape. Still freezing our director made the suggestion that we should have a fire. Soon enough a fire was started and we all circled around it for warmth at first and then for drying purposes. Steam rolled off our bodies as the fire dried our cloths, finally giving us a sense of contentment. When we were finished we decided that going through a storm, getting soaked, frozen, and then being thawed and dried was enough for the day so we climbed back into the boat and set off back to the hotel. The return trip was nothing compared to earlier, it was blue sky and calm waters as though the weather decided suddenly that it wanted to be happy.

This is Africa; that phrase describes the dynamic here more than anything else. We set out on that boat ride fully intending to climb a mountain and look at interesting burial sites of ancient kings. We were however greeted by a raging storm and frozen body parts. In many ways that was just as rewarding of an experience. We went through horrible conditions together; we danced, sang, and warmed up together. We huddled around a fire and returned together. This adventure wasn’t expected and was definitely not planned but it was such a bonding experience to go through the wind and the waves together and come back none the worse for wear. This is Africa where every adventure can become something totally unexpected.

One morning I had the pleasure of meeting a small boy named Jose; unfortunately it was not in the most pleasant of circumstances.  Jose had smashed his fingers in a door at his house leaving a hideous gash in his fingers.

“Valiente” (Brave) Silvia whispered again and again as she cleaned the wound.  She spoke the truth: despite getting more stitches than he could possibly count on his blood stained fingers he never shed a tear.  He did however understandably succumb to the pain and tried to pull his hand away.  I held both his hands: his right hand steady so Silvia could sew the stitches and his left hand to comfort him in a small but seemingly significant way.

Siliva later recounted the difficulty of administering treatments to children who do not want the treatment they are receiving because they do not understand that it is to help them.  As she had emphasized, Jose was brave, but others are not.  One boy threw a fit in protest of a nebulizer treatment he desperately needed.

I tell the story of Jose because, when I asked Siliva the most important things I do to help are she emphasized the little things like providing that extra set of hands that are needed and I think Jose’s case exemplifies these little things.  Sometimes making a difference in small ways adds up.

“The cloths are brightly printed and worn together in jangling mixtures that ring in my ears: pink gingham with orange plaid, for example. Loose-joint breaking-point colors, and whether you find them beautiful or find them appalling, they do make the women seem more festive, and less exhausted.” -The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver

“A long, flimsy pink and black scarf, with the garish prettiness of cheap things.” -The Thing Around Your Neck, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I stepped off the plane in Zanzibar already sweating with the smell of salty sea water invading my pores and lungs. Once aboard At first glance the “garish prettiness of cheap things” appeared appalling; even abrasive. But as the days rolled on and I was the recipient of a neon-orange shirt and bracelets made of large plastic beads, I began to see the beauty all around me. Not only were the black robes designed in various styles with subtle accessories that expressed a woman’s personality, but the colorful head scarves decorated with rhinestones became a symbol of deliberate and undeniable fashion.adalla-dalla (public mini-bus transportation) and driving towards Stonetown, I realized that my new home was nothing like the one I had left behind. Billowing black waves of silky fabric seemed to drown the feet, legs, and even hair of female passersby as our dalla-dalla inched forward through traffic. In the sea of black could be found an occasional head scarf in hot pink or lime green and the pale white legs and arms of a tourist

I made my way across the mainland to meet up with my Amizade group, and the sea of black was replaced by “jangling mixtures that ring in my ears.” Whether a woman’s skirt and blouse are of the same cloth or her outfit made up of various colors and patterns, we can all agree: ‘I would never wear such a thing in America.’

But why not? Each of us has adapted our style to our temporary home by putting on ‘Tanzania eyes.’ ‘Oh Wow! She looks so beautiful today!’ We say about Lane when she walks down to breakfast in a navy-blue and white skirt, brown-green top, and light-blue and beige kanga (a local fabric with a proverb written on the side, which she is wearing as a scarf) all in various floral patterns. ‘They really rock that new hair style!’ we agree when Danny shows up to dinner with letters shaved into the back of his head, and Juan shows off his half-Mohawk.

‘Can I have the left-over fabric?!’ We clamor when Caroline models her new shirt displaying neon-orange, blue, and white geometric shapes. ‘You have really become an expert seamstress!’ we insist to Joyce when she comes home wearing short-shorts made of the fabric of school uniforms with accents of kitenge (local fabric). A perfect blend of here and home!

‘Hey Doctor!’ we exclaim when Katie refuses to take off the white lab coat with kitenge accents she had specially designed and sewn.
‘She will look hot!’ we comfort John when he shows doubt that the kitenge he picked for his girlfriend doesn’t match the styles we might prefer at home.

I hope that our Tanzania eyes never go away. I hope we fight against the ease of allowing this new perspective to slowly slip away as we struggle to re-assimilate into the American culture and fashion that we left behind just a few months ago. Living in rural Tanzania, where malls are not available and we must go fabric shopping and then trial-and-error with various seamstresses, has given us all the opportunity to embrace our individuality and style that we may be tentative to express back home.

Since coming to Tanzania, death has slapped me in the face three times:

My first encounter was at the Nyakahanga hospital, where I am volunteering. Dr. Methodia and I were doing our normal Monday morning patient check-ups when a pregnant mother came into the clinic. She was seven months along and had been bed-ridden for the past two weeks with a high fever. During that time she noticed that, gradually, her fetus stopped moving inside of her. She knew she needed to go to the hospital, but she lacked the strength and money to get her there. She had to rest until her health improved enough that she could walk again, and she had to save enough money to pay for a taxi before she could come to Nyakahanga. When she arrived, it was confirmed using an ultrasound that the fetus had died, which was most likely a result of the mother contracting malaria during the pregnancy. When I inquired as to when she would receive surgery to remove the dead fetus, I was told that the procedure was not an option. This mother will carry her dead fetus for the next 2 months until natural labor occurs, unless she self-administers an abortion in the secrecy of her home.

This past Wednesday, another pregnant mother came into the clinic. She was two months along and had started bleeding from her vagina the previous night. She had to wait for daylight to make the trip to the hospital, and once she arrived it was confirmed that the mother had a partial miscarriage. Once again, the cause of death was attributed to malaria. The mother was scheduled for surgery to flush out her uterus and rehydrate her body. The nurses took 30 minutes trying to find a vein, just to inject an IV, while the mother laid motionlessly numb on the table.

That night, I remember lying in bed thinking about these two experiences and contemplating how mothers cope with tragedies such as these. Unexpectedly, my phone rang. I was informed that my friend Adam died that day in a motorcycle accident. He had the right-away at an intersection, yet the oncoming car did not stop for him. Thrown from his bike, Adam was killed from the impact since he was not wearing a helmet. That night, I cried myself to sleep in remembrance of these young lives all taken too soon.
I’m still trying to figure out what any of this means to me and how I am supposed cope an ocean away from home. The babies in the hospital never even had the chance to live outside of the womb. The warm and safe enclosure that has biologically evolved to protect them ended up as their final resting place. As for Adam, he got to have a taste of life. And he had plans to make something of it. Against all odds, he ran for district magistrate at the age of 18, was to attain a welding degree in Philadelphia next fall, and most of all was a kind, humorous, loving friend. Why did they all have to die?

It seems that the anthem for my trip thus far has been the song “Forever Young”. I’ve listened to it every night before falling asleep since I’ve arrived in Africa, and it seems that each night a different section speaks to me. For now, for Adam, and for the young lives lost, let me leave you with this…

“May God bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true, may you always do for others and let others do for you, may you build a ladder to the stars and climb on every rung, and may you stay forever young. “

Be it funeral, wedding, or Sunday service, every time I enter a church, a silence sweeps the crowd as all eyes turn to stare. More than a few “mzungu ” (white person) are uttered under breaths as the ushers scramble to make sure I get a real chair and not a bench off to the side but in the front so that I’m visible to all. The pastor then starts awkwardly in broken English apologizing that they don’t have a translator for the day, floundering until I raise my voice enough to be heard over all the excited twittering of the congregation to tell him I understand Swahili. He astoundedly asks, “You understand little the Swahili?” And I respond with “Sana (a lot).” He doesn’t look like he believes me but continues on in Swahili making several references to the “guest” throughout the sermon until I am told to stand up and introduce myself to the congregation. When I finish my “Ninaitwa Joyce na ninatoka Marekani. Nimefika Tanzania mwezi wa tisa kwa ajili ya kusoma Kiswahili. Asante kwa kunikaribisha,” (I am called Joyce and I come from America. I arrived in Tanzania in the ninth month for the purpose of studying Swahili. Thank you for welcoming me), the crowd always breaks out in laughter and applause. There are also usually several people who try and take some not so sneaky pictures of me with their phones so they can show their neighbors later that this silly looking mzungu with Chinese hair can speak Kiswahili. After the service someone will come up to me and say, “Aisee! Umekuwa Mtanzania kabisa!” (Wow! You have totally become a Tanzanian!). Hard for me to believe when I’m surrounded by people staring at the one obvious outsider to the congregation. It doesn’t help that the Swahili word for guest, mgeni, is the same word for stranger.

When I first arrived in Tanzania in September, I figured my outsider status as an mzungu would be a temporary annoyance. The more I was able to hold my own in Swahili, dress like a local, and make connections with my community, the more I thought I would be accepted as a fellow human being instead of always being seen as an outsider. Seven months later I’m asking still asking myself if I will ever be able to break free from (or at the very least get used to) always being the mzungu. Is it even possible to accustom oneself to being a constant source of wonder, jeering, and disbelief? Every time I walk anywhere, all eyes follow me, kids literally stop in their tracks to stare, men yell out about looking for an mchumba (fiancée). Even though I have been living here in Kayanga for 6 weeks, even though I have begun to start making real friendships, even though I have told countless kids and young men and old women who yell out “Mzungu!” that I too have a name, I’m still the stranger here.

It’s not that Tanzanians are not welcoming–quite the opposite, in fact, as strangers are forever inviting us to their homes, constantly calling out to us in the street to come have a conversation, and always asking for a phone number to seal the friendship. Within minutes of meeting someone, he or she is asking when I’ll next be back and how will we keep in touch when I leave for Marekani because he or she will miss me so much. It’s rather overwhelming to feel so welcomed at times, especially when I feel that I have done nothing to deserve so much attention. It’s the same feeling when I accomplish any minor task such as washing a dish or tying a kanga (traditional fabric that women use for everything) and people will congratulate me with the same amount of shock you might have upon congratulating a ten year old who has just graduated law school.

It actually reminds me a lot of what I learned in my Sociology and Africanist Philosophy classes at Seattle University as we were talking about the experience of the minority in the United States and DeBois’ idea of double consciousness. As an over-privileged white female primarily surrounded by people who looked like and thought like me, it was a difficult concept to grasp then since my identity had never been imposed upon me by the dominant majority. Since arriving in Tanzania and struggling with my desire to immerse myself in and assimilate with the local culture versus my imposed identity of an outsider mzungu, I have begun to understand this dynamic a lot better. No matter how much street slang I use or how much I insist upon washing my own clothes by hand just like all other African women, I am still perceived as this crazy mzungu, not just a fellow human being.

True, most of the people I interact with here have had very little exposure to the mzungu world outside of television and a few village anecdotes so I really can’t blame their reactions, but there are of course some moments where I feel like more than just my white skin has been seen. This past weekend we spent a couple hours around a bonfire on the shore of Lake Victoria with some random locals and I got to talking with one of the guys there. It started off like so many other conversations where he could not believe I’d only been studying Swahili for 7 months and is it really true any American can own a gun and would I take him to the land of Obama? But after I articulated my frustration to him about always getting such questions, the conversation turned into a genuine exchange of ideas between two human beings. Even though he had only gotten the chance to study until third grade (his father had over twenty children), we discussed cultural stereotypes, the value of questioning education, our legacy to future generations, and the reason for the inequities between developed and less developed countries. And when he enquired as to whether I believed in God, he actually openly listened to my existential doubts rather than just asking whether I was Lutheran or Catholic or Muslim and then moving on to whether or not WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment – yeah I didn’t know what it was either) is for real or fake. I left the bonfire that night feeling fulfilled and challenged as a fellow human being rather than just seen as this wonder that is the mzungu.

I think the reason it bothers me so much that I still feel branded by this outsider mzungu status is because I’m always trying to prove to myself that this idea of global citizenship is not just a relative understanding. That cross-cultural relationships are possible, that two soldiers from completely different backgrounds can see their common identity, that we won’t always be divided between the haves and have-nots but will someday find the compassion that our shared humanity demands. How many years would I have to live in Kayanga before people would start yelling “Joyce!” every time I passed and not just see me as that crazy mzungu who knows Swahili? Would it be the result of increasing globalization or just people getting used to seeing my face around town? Whatever the case, I do not regret having to struggle with this imposed identity – in taking the time to challenge Tanzanians’ perception of me as just an mzungu, I am also reminding myself that I too hold stereotypes that constantly call for reexamination.

Friday, March 29

Today was Sport’s Day! All of us went to the Galloway ECI to support the kids. I was excited for them because I had been watching them train all week. All of them were clad and shining I their team colors. The students raced to see who could count correctly and write their names the fastest. Unfortunately team yellow did not win. It seemed every child’s parent came out to cheer them on. It was a big local event. People were selling candy and water. Parents and relatives were yelling at the little athletes to run faster. It felt like a track meet to me. It was nice to get to see and play with the kids one last time before we left. I’ve really gotten close with these kids. I wish I could stay longer so I could see their progress and learn more about them. They are so remarkably smart for their age. Before we left, I hugged Ms. Johnson goodbye. She was so welcoming to me in her classroom. She impressed me with her patience and enthusiasm in the classroom. It’s hard to think she works in the classroom all day and goes to college at night.

After Sport’s Day, we went to Bluefield’s Beach again. It provided the perfect essence of peace I needed at the end of the day. We visited our bartender friend; he was happy to see us back. He is genuinely interested in what we have to say, he not interested in our business. Otherwise he wouldn’t give us free drinks. We went exploring in Bluefield’s River. It felt like I walked off a road into a rainforest. We stayed there until the sun was beginning to set. It was a nice group bonding experience after a busy and tiring week.

It’s hard to believe that it’s already Friday. This week has gone by so quickly and I feel I’ve barely had time to write in my journal- or lay down for that matter. Our group discussions have provided a lot of food for thought during our trip. At this point in the trip, I feel I’ve had a positive impact on the Petersfield community. I will never know for sure. One thing I do know is that the community members and my experience here in the village tourism program have had positive impacts on me. The Petersfield residents and our host families have welcomed us into their homes and community. In this effort, we are all being brought closer together. Amizade’s appearance and effort in Petersfield has established a kind friendship over the years. I can see it. And I hope others can too. There were some bumps in the road, but not everything goes as expected. All good things happen in good time. But I can say I am grateful to have been a part of this positive effort.

Today was an extremely interesting day to say the least. The day was full of a variety
of experiences and wonderful opportunities. The day began with three of the seven
students traveling the ECI (pre) school to help with various tasks around the school.
It was amazing to see the capacity that the children who are only three to five years
old. They were all proficient at typing and it was amazing to see the aptitude that
the children shared for learning. The others of the group remained in the town of
Petersfield to assist with task in and around the community.

At around noon we traveled as a group to a local radio station, where several
members of the group and our facilitator were given their chance on the radio to
explain our program and the wonderful experience we were all having in Jamaica.
From the radio station we traveled to a spice factory to see the preparation and
packing process of many of the spices. The owners of the factory were very pleased
with our viewing and sent us away with a variety of free spices, calendars and pens.

After some down time, we were allowed a first hand experience into the AOC. We
sat in on an official AOC meeting where we were able to hear and see exactly how
the club works and learn of their future goals. To top off the very interesting day
we were transported to Negril where we went to a nightclub, which was similar
to the American night scene. After dancing into the late hours of the night the very
interesting day came to an end.