An odd event.

On my way to work this morning I once again passed by the same ol' hole in the ground that I pass every morning on my walk to the hospital. Inside this 2' x 2' deep hole a 1' water line traverses the gap, running parallel with the dirt road. On most days there is water squirting from between the seam in the pipe, filling the bottom of the hole with water. Some days, on hot days, there is no water in the bottom of the hole. This morning there was. This morning there was also an old, wrinkled black man taking advantage of the fact that there was water in the bottom of that hole. He sat there on the side of the road, navy blue pants rolled up to his knees, bare feet immersed ankle deep in the water under the exposed pipe, scooping water up with both hands, splashing it onto his face, scrubbing the back of his neck and his face, and also gulped down a cupped handful or two of the murky, tan water that he seemed to be cleaning himself with as his younger male companion stood close by keeping a watchful eye. Now water is pretty cheap to buy here in Tanzania and the ocean is not that far away. Whether he was just that desperate for water and settled for whatever was close by or simply didn't care about the quality or source, one could only speculate. Now that I think about it, it's April Fool's Day. Maybe the cosmos is playing pranks on my psyche and I'm simply hallucinating. Regardless, in one form or another, this day started off with an odd event.

More to come. Stay Posted.

A sad day. A happy evening.

My mentor and comrade during my first week at the hospital departed for Kenya this afternoon, leaving me the single representative of the Western Hemisphere at the hospital. I can't help but to feel even more separated and isolated. I also feel cheated. Knowing how much he's pushed me, how much I've grown, how he's inspired me to want to be so much more in just 4 days, but not getting the chance to know what I could have become after an entire affiliation under his guidance. Why'd you have to go and fire him, CCBRT? You don't realize how great of a hospital you were with him being there. But then again we learn by making mistakes...
In honor of his departure, I'd like to take the opportunity to share a few memorable quotes with you of words that Dr. Warren shared with me. Please pardon the profanity.

"The other doctors here do shitty work. If you ask me this is butchering patients. And this is supposed to be the good hospital in Tanzania."

"Kevin, look at this. This is disgusting. It's criminal. Nothing more than slashing. It's absolute bullshit." - said after examining a child under the care of another physician there. Child was post-op, physician notes said it was a successful plantigrade correction of clubfoot. Child's foot showed numerous scars but was nowhere near plantigrade.

"That asshole that sits behind that desk in there tells me that all these kids’ feet were fine until I got here and that I'm responsible for all of this."

"Africa is a complete 180 degrees from the rest of the world. Tanzania is completely backwards yet on top of that."

When describing the surgical staff at the hospital, he describes them as "fat, lazy slobs. The whole lot of them".

He's been known to say a lot more colorful things, but this is all I dare write. Did I ever mention that he was Canadian? Not French. Just Canadian. He was a pushy man who had high standards, but he was an excellent surgeon that was passionate about providing top-notch care for children. "I try to think of each and every kid that I see as a child of God." Of all the things that Dr. Warren has said, that last quote will stick with me above all else. You see, Dr. Warren was also a very devote Christian; in everything he did, he did it unto the Lord. He honored God with the gifts given unto him. When he treated those children it was as if he was treating his Lord and king. He served God through serving those kids. And although he may not have always been the most patient, kind-hearted, gentlest of men, he was one of the most grounded, passionate, vibrant, intelligent men filled with integrity that I could ever hope to work with. I'm glad I had the opportunity to cross paths with him. Even though I never properly got to say goodbye to him in his rush to catch his flight to Kenya after performing one last surgery on one last needy child at CCBRT fortunate to have him as his doctor, the lack of closure leaves me hopeful that one day I will run across his path again. There goes my hero. There goes my mentor.

And as I sat in my dark, warm room at the day’s end (result of the ever so frequent power cuts) mourning his leaving my day completely turned around as my cell phone erupted in its annoying Indian-themed ringtone (no offense Fareena). I quickly dashed to the table at the front entrance where my cell phone sat charging to see who would be calling. The screen read Anonymous. Normally, state-side, when a call comes up Unavailable I screen it as it is usually a telemarketer. But since I'm feeling so deprived of communication with other human beings I decided to take the risk and answer it anyway. I hit the jackpot! A bazillion times better than a telemarketer. It was Daire! I spun around, jumped up and down a couple of times, and ran back and forth through my shack in excitement to hear her voice. I couldn't believe that I got a call from someone in the states! It meant the world to me in that moment, and after just five minutes on the phone with her my entire day was revolutionized. Daire, you are so much more than a mother to all of us in the PT program at the U. You're an angel. Thanks for taking the time to call. Thanks for everything you've provided throughout the years. Simply, thank you. You single handedly, through one phone call, turned a sad day into a happy evening.

More to come. Stay Posted.

A bad banana.

There is an old saying whereby "One bad apple spoils the entire bushel". Through a recent personal experience this profound wisdom was contrived: "One bad banana is enough to make a boy sick." Of everything that I've eaten so far (not that it has been anything extreme or bizarre by any means) I’m baffled as it was a simple banana that did me in. We're not talking anything severe, just simply starting with nausea, abdominal discomfort, eventually leading to mild loose stools. And in case you're keeping up to date with my blog, yes, these indeed were the bananas that I purchases after lying to the lad on Saturday about my financial standing. I guess Karma did get the best of me after all. I should have known better, especially after all the lectures provided by my much missed hostess during my 3rd affiliation - the lovely Ms. Becky Gibson. You'll make a Buddhist out of me eventually. :)

Let's entertain the earlier statement regarding consumed goods while in Tanzania thus far. Prior to my leaving my father and mother heard from a mother of a girl from MN who is in the Peace Corp here in Western Tanzania who I brought her laptop along with me on my voyage to Eastern Tanzania that she was forced to eat soup containing heads of fish, eyeballs and all, alongside some form of prepared rabbit ear. While I was much looking forward to such fine dining I have yet to encounter something so primitive. The first thing I actually consumed while in Tanzania, in case you're curious: beer. That's right, a nice tall lager. The brew: Castle. Not the best beer I've had, but then again I wasn't even expecting to find such goodness during my stay. It'll have to do for now. Where did I have this beer? At a night club. Another thing that I did not expect in Africa. When did all of this happen? Within an hour after leaving the airport. Fareena quickly made me change and "freshen up" after dropping my luggage off at her parent's place and carted me out the door to meet some of her friends at a club on the coast of the Indian Ocean at the outskirts of the city. It was also the first time I encountered the Maasai parking cars. The club was entirely outdoors as most things are here in Africa with some private VIP areas draped with white linens. People of all nationalities were in attendance, mingling and moving to the beats of modern American Hip Hop with occasional flavor of African music of the same genre mixed in for good measure. By far the neatest thing about the club? There was an empty swimming pool right in the middle of the establishment that allowed patrons the option to sit along the rim, dance down below, or purchase a beverage from a bar set up in the deep end. Creative use of space if you ask me.

Back to the topic at hand: food. Fareena introduced me to some of the highlights to Indian food while in her watch, including Samoas adorned with lemon juice, green chilies and coconut, spiced cassava chips, Tangaweze (My favorite soda! It's a strong ginger flavored beverage, sort of like our Ginger-ale on steroids), hot and spicy grilled chicken, chapatti bread, and chips (what we know as French fries). Fareena told me as we were eating out that night "Don't expect to lose weight while you're here because almost everything is deep fried". I've found that to be more the norm, but not the golden rule. Of course it was two days later that I actually really ate again. Luckily I had with me some candy (Twizzlers, whoppers, and Smarties) given to me by my dear friends Becky Gibson, Jeff and Mike at my going away party and my daily multivitamins to help tide me over. My, now departed mentor, Dr. Warren, came to my rescue by taking me out to an Indian restaurant. I had the Coconut Chicken Masala. Wonderful!!! Such a creamy combination of rich bold flavors. All was good in the world again. Once I discovered where an ATM was and could withdraw schillings and thereby allowing me to buy food of my own, it was off to find the nearest supermarket. Yes, I'm actually able to shop in a store for my groceries, not having to manage a chaotic market as you might expect. It is no Rainbow or Cubs by comparison, just the essentials, which is what I've been living off of. Some yoghurt, cashews, protein bars, fruit juice (mango, litchi, peach, and orange are some of my favorites), fruits and veggies, ramen noodles, soda, water, and the occasional splurge of a beer. Nothing profound, nothing unique thus far. I was remotely hoping and expecting that the produce here would be an out of this world experience with it being local and all. No such luck. Just bland and boring, even slightly sickly as noted above.

Besides the daily occurrence of finding a bit to eat I thought it might be behoove of me to enlighten you into the ins and outs of my daily routine. I must preface this by saying that 10 days in Africa is not enough to establish any means of routine, but here it goes. On nights that I've been able to sleep (3 thus far) and those that I just lie in bed wishing that I was sleeping I roll out of bed promptly at 6:45 A.M., just as the sun is starting to make its appearance in the eastern sky. From my floral printed queen-size slab of what feels like solid wood that is my bed I grab my faux wood rimmed glasses and walk off my plantar fasciitis through my U-shaped guest shack to the bathroom where I do my morning manly routine. I quickly grab a protein bar, wash it and my multivitamin down with some fruit juice, grab my necessary items for the day at the hospital, unlock my door with my long silver key from the inside, step out into the African heat where I begin to sweat at a greater rate than what I already had been since the moment I awoke 1/2 hour ago. From there I lock the door, now from the outside, turn to face my gatekeeper who is pulling back the 7' tall, red sheet metal gate that barricades the compound I reside in, greet him with the few words of Swahili that I know, and start off on the 10 minute walk down a pot hole ridden gravel road to the hospital. (Dad, Africa would be blessed to have you work your magic here).

As I'm walking locals pass by, staring the entire time. Each and every day I catch myself wondering if I'd forgotten to put a shirt on, if my fly is down, do I have something on my face, etc, but then I remember it's because I'm white. This is a regular occurrence during the day, the gawking and constant stares. My personal favorite is when the person, watching me walk towards them the entire way and then upon passing, turns their head, or sometimes entire body, to continue to stare at me in bewilderment. I feel like a walking car accident, train wreck, or natural wonder that one simply cannot take their eyes off. I have begun to stare back, thanks to the advice of Fareena. It doesn't faze them, though; they keep on staring. At first it almost bothered me, now it amuses me.

Reaching the hospital at 7:30 A.M., I change into my white scrubs, boot up the 8 year old computer that tries its best to run Windows XP, and eagerly await my email to come up, welcoming me to another morning with loving messages from my family in a familiar world from afar. It really is a great way to start the day. By time we start to see our first patient at 9:00 A.M. I've managed to read and respond to several of the emails; the others will have to wait until later in the day. Since Halima and the rest of the rehab staff really don't want to teach me anything, evident by not including me in patient treatment sessions or speaking entirely in Swahili without bothering to translate for me even when I ask what they're saying, I have already been seeking out other sources of learning in the hospital. This is where I've come to meet my mentor Dr. Warren. He has challenged my thinking and practice as a physio in an unprecedented manner in just 4 days by drilling me on my anatomy, scrutinizing rehab protocols to minute detail as one would expect from an excellent surgeon, telling me to interpret X-rays to him, pulling me into the ER to give me an firsthand look at viable tissue where he'll unexpectingly expect me to come up with the correct corrective outcomes for the patient on the table, almost as if he's waiting to perform the surgery depending on what comes out of my mouth. The whole time we're in surgery he continues to quiz me on anatomy, asking me what he'd damage if he were to be careless and cut this or go too deep there and what it would do to the patient - that is when he's not belligerently yelling at the incompetent surgical staff.

When I say my goodbyes from the morning surgery I make my way back to the physio department. On my way I pass through the waiting room/playground area where I am greeted by the children from the inpatient ward dressed in their blue hospital gowns adorned with white bleach blots, various combinations of casts on their legs, and all either on crutches or in wheelchairs far too big for them who call out my name in excitement as I make my way toward them. Greeting them with a gigantic smile, "Jambo mambo" ["Hello, how are you"] is all I can say to them as most of them know no English. It breaks my heart that I know nothing else at this point to say to them. But each of them gets a high five, an exploding fist pound (yes Rachel, I've taught the children here the exploding fist pound!!!), or a big ol’ hug. It is the highlight of my day when I hear one of those kids yell my name, knowing that they're excited to see me. It's for them that I go to the hospital every morning. It's for them that I came to Africa. It was worth it. Most of the rest of the afternoon I find ways to make it back to the ward or step outside and seem them again, to see their smiling faces. Generally it's not all that hard as I'm sitting around in the physio department by myself reviewing my pediatric notes and studying for my up and coming boards. That is when my notes are available and they haven't been stolen by one of the other staff there. [I caught my CI reading my book once when I stuck my head out of the patient treatment curtained-off area after she had disappeared on my in the middle of treating a patient. She came back a little bit later and began to give me a lecture/review of Down Syndrome, asking if I had ever heard or been taught that pt condition before, if I'd ever seen a kid with it, making herself seem like she was the expert of that condition, telling me that I could possibly try to find a book to give me more information on it, the whole time unknowing that I had just read the exact same information in that book, unaware that I saw her reading it. Who's teaching who on this affil exactly?]

Treating children here sometimes is painful. Kids are not encouraged to play, more so forced into positions, forced through motions. Every kid seems to get the same system of treatment: midline orientation, joint approximation, telescoping of limbs, quadruped positioning/four-point kneeling, two-point kneeling, squatting, forced into standing straight-leg flexion at the waist in which they're supposed to use their back extensors to pull themselves into upright standing, and then strapped into the standing frame for 15-60 minutes. There is a lot of crying in our department. Not many smiles. Except for when I am there treating them on my own. Maybe it's the fact that they're dumbfounded and speachless because I'm white but they seem to smile and laugh a lot more when I treat them. Maybe it's because I make things fun...

When our last patient leaves for the day around 2 in the afternoon, I sit and study some more, check some more emails, or track down Dr. Warren to have him push me a little more academically and teach me the intricacies of correcting club foot while the rest of the staff goofs off, chattering away in Swahili, and groom themselves in preparation of leaving for the day at 4:00 P.M. Even though they only see patients or are actually working from 9-2, they still remain at the hospital every day from 7:30-4:00 so they get paid the full day's wage. To me it's somewhat unethical, almost stealing from the hospital.

Once 4:00 comes about I'm off down the garbage lined, pothole ridden dirt road back to 1358 Mzinga Way. Once there I drop off my bag, grab my camera, and head down to the beach where I walk the remaining 2 1/2 hours of sunlight away. When the sun starts to set in the Western sky I make my way back to my house as it's not safe to be walking around when the sun goes down. Evenings are spent inside, alone. I listen to Matt Nathanson as I type up my evening blog, nostalgia sweeping over me as I think of my 'lil sis and how much I miss her. Sometimes I'll switch on the tube and catch the latest update on the ominous economic crisis, watch a terrible dubbed Spanish soap opera, or, maybe if I'm really lucky, catch an episode of Murder She Wrote or Walker: Texas Ranger. Then there is studying to be done, with sets of push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups interspersed. After working up both a mental sweat as well as a physical one above and beyond the baseline sweat from the African heat it's back to the bathroom to perform my evening manly routine. This generally includes a shower of cold, weak-pressured, ill-smelling water coming from a half rusted-over shower head that barely allows anything to escape its metallic confines. If only my pores were rusted over... At least the shower cools me to the point where I can finally stop sweating. Then, cool and clean, I walk off the pains from the day while wearing my faux wood framed glasses back to my sturdy wood bed and pray. Prayers of thanks for being able to come here, for the experience, for being fortunate for the things I have, to watch over my family and friends back home, for people's problems much bigger than my own, for safety, for patience, for strength, for peace in this point and time of my life, that I could possibly get some sleep tonight, that He would grace me with the ability to rise another day with the Eastern African sun, and that the banana I eat in the morning may be a good one.

More to Come. Stay posted.

Expats!

I was invited by my surgeon mentor Dr. Warren to the church that he has attended over the past 6 months while he has been in Dar. I was excited to attend the service after reading in one of the local magazines that it was a community of English speaking Christians who enjoy worshiping together. Now, just because they speak English does not constitute someone as being an Expat. An Expat is just simply someone who does not originally hail from Tanzania. Generally, these are going to be English speaking people. Someone that I’m actually going to be able to have a straightforward conversation with, one of the things that I have grown to miss the most other than my family, friends, credit card, a soft bed, and Target. I’ve come to realize that 1 or 2 word conversations simply aren’t fulfilling. That is the nice thing about Swahili, though. You can easily have a conversation with just a few words. It doesn’t get you far, though, but it can get you by. Needless to say, the opportunity to be around other English speaking beings was comforting to say the least. No straining to understand their words, no miscomprehension, just easy dialog. It was nice to have that again. It was even more so comforting to learn that some of them are from Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan. There are actually some other Midwesterners here! Now just to get to be on good terms with them so as to actually have some other English speaking cohorts once my mentor departs on Tuesday.

In actuality, I just wish that I had someone else here with me. This rotation would be much easier to handle had I someone else here from school in the same situation. For just over a week now I’ve been pretty much on my own; a long, lonely week. I learned during my first year of PT school when I lived in a 1 bedroom apartment by myself that I don’t really do well alone. Those same feelings and hardships have quickly returned. It makes me realize my insecurities and how much I hate being isolated. If only being at the hospital was proving to be a relief from complete isolation. However, I have been told on 2 separate occasions by 2 separate staff at the hospital now that I am not good enough for their hospital because I don’t speak Swahili, that I have nothing to offer them. It is harsh to hear but I understand where they were coming from. My jaw did drop open in disbelief, though, thinking “you have got to be kidding. I’m a student, I’m here to learn. You’re supposed to be working with me and teaching me.” Even though I don't know how to speak Swahili, I know that I can still be polite, friendly, and offer a smile to everyone that I meet. I bring with me a years of education from an excellent school system. I know that I do indeed have something to offer. It just takes some work in communicating. But still it is hard to swallow hearing that me, a westerner, isn’t good enough for Tanzania. I am not needed here. I have nothing to offer them. I feel at times I’m wasting my time. Wasting away in complete isolation. Hopefully this week doesn’t prove too terribly long and Sunday comes quickly, allowing me once again to flock with my fellow birds of feather. My brothers and sisters. My expats.

More to come. Stay tuned.

Mzungu

In Swahili it translates to white person, foreigner. Personally, to the Tanzanian, I feel that it translates to mean savior. At least that is what my experience has come to be. Walking through the city of Dar es Salaam this weekend it was hard not to see the blatant poverty stricken lifestyles that is the harsh reality of so many of the citizens here. It seemed that at every street corner there was someone selling something. One person in particular approached me out of the blue with a backpack on his back, well groomed, and spoke English remarkably well. My immediate impression was that he was a tourist as well, or at least he did not immediately reside within Dar. He was very friendly, told me how he enjoyed meeting tourists and especially loved Americans. Then he started telling me about how he was an orphaned child early on, that he was then sponsored by a wealthy Canadian man who was arranging for him to move to Canada but passed away before things were finalized and was thus forced to re-enter the standard way of life in Dar once mar. (Misspelling intended for pun purposesJ). So to make a living for himself he started spatula painting on canvas, depicting Maasai life. He asked me where I was going to be going that afternoon, to which I replied I was simply out for a walk and had no place in particular in mind. He suggested going to the botanical gardens and offered to show me the way. Now “the way” was “out of the way” for where I intended in going that afternoon despite my having no particular destination, but I had marked it in my Tanzania book purchased back in the states prior to departure as one of the places I wanted to visit while in Dar so I entertained the young man (learning later that he was 22) and allowed him to take me off my course of meandering and directly to this secret garden. I quickly had an overwhelming sense of apprehension as we weaved off the main highway onto some roads less traveled. I don’t want to come across as being racist/prejudice/biased but with the number of tourist muggings that happen every hour within the city limits I wasn’t too eager to become just another statistic. Each and every time we crossed a street I hesitated slightly to survey the surroundings, figure out what street I was on, and refresh in my mind which way it was back to the highway in case I needed to high tail it out of there. Finally we arrived. I was happy I took his offer as the ‘garden’ was worth the venture. I quickly returned to ease as my guide walked me past tree after tree, each being completely different than the last, each having a unique gift to offer, be it medicinal, fruit-bearing, or simply for beholding beauty. Peacocks flocked together on the grassy grounds, running from one patch to the next as people passed by; what sounded to be thousands of their smaller, more flight-friendly relatives sat perched in the variety of greenery. The natural beauty was further enhanced as it was the first and only place in Tanzania thus far that wasn’t littered with garbage. The garden was actually very well maintained. I learned from my guide that some of the locals are very protective of the garden and do their best to make sure that it stays that way.

Now, back to the topic at hand at the beginning of this post. My guide, having me at our final destination, relaxed and with my guard down after taking in this charming center within the city, really starts to reiterate the fact that he is poor, starving, and homeless. He pulls out his roll of painted canvas (to which he told me he purposely doesn’t frame so as to enhance its portability while traveling – making it ideal for tourists such as myself) depicting Maasai life. The paintings are all very nice, he does great work. He tells me that he sells them for a very expensive price but for me he will give me a deal. I stop him there. I tell him that his paintings are nice but that I don’t carry any money on me when out walking and that I have no way of paying for any of his paintings. I lied. I just didn’t want to buy any of his work, mainly for the fact that I felt that I was being used. He acts like he’s a friend, takes me to these places, goes out of the way, acts very nice, and then expects me to ‘rescue’ him from his condition by buying one of his paintings or giving him a cash handout so that he can go and eat. This is what really kills me, though. Upon hearing that I have nothing to offer him he packs up his belongings and says he’ll take me back to the highway. I told him I knew the way. He never said another word to me. He wanted nothing to do with me now that I had nothing to give to him. I felt even moreso like I was being used. I got back to the highway, said goodbye to him as he kept on walking without giving a reply, rounded the corner and bought a mango and some bananas to enjoy later in the week. Heartless.

But then I rounded the corner again and was met by, what would you guess, another starving artist. No shaking him, tells me the same story. I tell him not to waste his time.
The next day I was out walking near where I live, taking some pictures to remember where home was while I was here, and out runs this young guy from one of the nearby shops. Not as well groomed as the other two guys were yesterday. He just wants me to come into his shop. Since I was trying to find some phone vouchers (basically cell phone minutes – all the phones here are pay as you go) so that I could call home later that night I decided to go in and check out his shop. I ask him for the vouchers but learn that he doesn’t sell them in his store. He tells me he’ll take me to a shop down the road where I can get one. We need to stop by his house first. He takes me into his dingy yellow, dilapidated single level house where his sickly-looking mother, sister, and cousin are sprawled out on severely stained and torn red couches watching a program in Swahili on a fuzzy black and white television. It smells terrible. The house is a mess. It’s a very sad sight. Makes me feel grateful for where I’m staying. The boy runs out to grab a pen and paper as he wants to write me some words to learn in Swahili. He tells me to have a seat and watch TV with his family. I sit. 5 minutes go by with the family all staring at me squirming in my seat from where I’m sitting on watching the TV but not understanding a thing. I think the family can tell I don’t want to look at them. When he comes back I tell him I need to go and that my dictionary will suffice in teaching me the Swahili I need and quickly head to the door. He follows me and tells me he wants to show me his room. He takes me to the garage off the main house, opens a shutter on the side, opening to his room. The smell almost made me hurl. Inside the small room were two small beds without mattresses and some dirty clothes in the corner. Come to think of it, everything was dirty; dark and dirty. It make me feel all that more lucky.

Enough of the house, he decides to take me to the store. I buy my Tigo cards (Tigo is the cell phone provider for my phone). The change goes into my wallet, into my pocket, the boy notices. We head back toward his store on the way back to my house and run into one of his friends. They want to take me to the beach. Since I love Coco beach and had nothing else to do that afternoon I decide to walk with them down there. We talk about how I want to climb Kili. He tells me that he just recently climbed and that he knows some people that I can contact to get a good deal. We head back home and once I’m about to depart from their path toward my house the boy unloads his story once again. He wants to be a film director, to make documentaries and take them to the states to show Americans what African life is like. But how can he make movies when he cannot even eat? He asks if I can give him the change from my Tigo cards so that he can buy some food or some minutes of his own so that he can use his phone. I told him that I need that money for myself so that I can continue to eat. I never told him the extent of my debt and that I basically used the last of my money to come to his country. Still it wouldn’t dare to resemble his definition of “poor”. But once again I felt used. He seemed very friendly, caring, went out of his way, talked so sweetly, and was going to help me out in return that I would help him. That I would give him my money. That I would be his savior.

I thought that I had seen the last of him that night. Tonight, shortly after I returned home after work, the gatekeeper knocked on my door and told me I had a guest at the gate. I walked out my door to see him standing there. I don’t know how he found me. Maybe he followed me. Maybe he knocked at every gate from where he last saw me asking for me. Regardless, he wasn’t going to let me go. He wanted to come in and teach me some more Swahili. I told him I was terribly busy and that I didn’t have time. Then he told me that he needs for me to write him a letter when I go back to the states, inviting him to America so that he can apply for a visa and come to America as well. He also needed me to come with him to tomorrow to help him get a job selling gemstones; I was to be a customer and buy some diamonds or tanzanite from him in front of this guy to demonstrate how good of salesman he could be. Maybe I should have told him my level of poverty so he’d understand that I could not possibly afford to buy gemstones at this point and time in my life. I finally was able to send him along his way. I told the gatekeeper that if he should ever come to the gate again to send him away. I didn’t want him coming back. I’m sure Karma will bite me in the butt for that.

I just find it infuriating that I can’t go anywhere here without trying to be taken advantage of or used for personal gain. Doesn't anyone just want to be my friend? Don’t get me wrong, I truly wish that I had the luxury of infinite wealth that I could freely throw money at anyone who asks. But for now I can’t. For now I’m nobody’s savior. For now I’m simply mzungu.

More to come. Stay tuned.

I have a cell phone!

Thanks to Fareena’s parent’s I actually have a phone while in Dar. Thanks be to God! It gives me opportunity to stay in touch with some of the people here that I’m meeting as well as call home every once and a while. To talk to my parents it costs about $5 for 12 minutes. But international calls are free for me to receive! So if you ever get the desire to talk with me feel free to give me a call at 255717399653. Just keep in mind that I’m 9 hours ahead of you, so please plan accordingly. Also, Fareena mentioned that you can use certain programs such as www.net2phone.com where you can call internationally from your computer, offering slightly better rates than what you would get from a phone card. Please consider placing a call, though. It would mean a lot to me to hear a familiar voice on my Tanzanian cell phone.

I pray that all is well with you.

Tonight, Tonight

Tonight, my dear sister, I lie awake with thoughts of you filling my head. This distance has proven too much already after just a handfull of days. June seems like an eternity from now. How I look forward to holding you in my arms. Tonight I hold you in my heart. With much love,

Kevin

T.I.A

In a not so recent Hollywood blockbuster that revolutionized how many of us thought about the use of a certain gemstone for that “pop the question” moment, Blood Diamond, the acronym T.I.A was used on a number of occasions. What exactly does T.I.A stand for? This is Africa. What I’ve come to understand of this phrase from a personal level, more-so because I’ve forgotten the exact reference of it in the movie, is that Africa is completely backwards from the rest of the world. Tanzania, furthermore, is a complete 180 from the rest of Africa in regards to the progress that other countries around it have shown. The occurrence during my stay here in Africa that I most hoped to utter TIA after experienced it happened this morning as I was pulling back the drapes to welcome in the morning sunlight and a medium-sized yellow gecko/lizard (I call them ‘Stevies’ after recently watching Madagascar 2 on the flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi) ran from where it was camped out on the window pane, up the wall, and slithered into the woodwork along the ceiling in a matter of 3.7 seconds. After that happened I made sure to shake my shoes out before sticking my feet in them lest any scorpions be ‘camped out’ as well. TIA

And what do you do for entertainment at night when the power is out for days on end after the government decides to save money by triggering a rolling blackout and all you have is a handy LED flashlight that still operates and going outside isn’t an option for risk of being mugged or murdered? Make shadow puppets on the wall. TIA

I have seen 3 doctors in the hospital I’m residing at simply put down their instruments while in the middle of casting a patient’s leg [mind you that said patient is a 6 month old screaming girl] with 9 more patients yet to be seen, scrub up, change their clothes and leave the hospital because their bus was leaving. Their response – “I’ll have no way of getting home otherwise”. You never heard of a cab? I have witnessed other surgeons cancel patient scheduled surgeries because they didn't want to take the time that day and operate, despite the fact that the child had been waiting 3 months for the operation. Disgusting professionalism, but TIA

Patient’s mothers will sit and play with their cell phones or text while their screaming baby sits in front of them. No attempt to console the child is ever demonstrated. But to them their deformed baby operates like an ugly accessory that doesn’t go with any of their outfits yet their forced to wear. Worse yet, therapists will put down the child that they are working with when getting a phone call or text so that they can attend to their personal telephone rather than their patient. Africans and their cell phones. TIA

Public sanitation doesn’t exist. If you’re responsible you burn your garbage. If you’re like most of the people here you simply throw it on the ground for other people to trample. [Hopefully I can get a picture uploaded here so that you can see how bad it is.] TIA

The Maasai, a warrior tribe of east Africa, have been reduced to directing people in where to park their cars on the streets outside of establishments and attending over them while people are inside. The intent is that it keeps thieves away from attempting a break-in/car jack for fear of running into a Maasai where they run the risk of being stabbed or killed. TIA

Have you noticed yet that there is a lot of thievery and violence here? TIA

Breastfeeding in public is socially acceptable. Hospital staff strongly encourage the mother to let the child "suckle" while treating as it keeps the child quiet. Natural pacifier, but I'm still uncomfortable with having the mother just "whip it out" right there in front of me when her child starts to cry. TIA

I will have more TIA moments to post over the course of the next 11 weeks. I’ve got some dandy of rants and raves to post. For now it is off to bed for me. For you: you are busy at work looking forward to lunch. Enjoy your day.

More to come. Stay posted.

Not so Lucky

“I hope that you get to sit next to a really good looking girl on your flight” my father said to me as we sat at MSP international airport delaying my pending departure. I thought my chances of it actually happening were pretty good considering Rosemount High School choir was going to be on board with me. Now before you all throw a fuss and make comments about me robbing-the-cradle in regards to getting lucky sitting next to some high school girl and to properly represent the RHS choir in this blog – there were a number of really good looking girls. But holding true to my fortunate nature, I am blessed with 60 something year old woman who probably should have booked my seat in addition to the one that she attempted to cram herself into.

This said lady was going on Safari in Kenya with 15 others that joined her from her hometown of Idaho Springs. All of them worked at the zoo there in various ways. She loved to rave about the exotic animals that they had at their zoo – the penguins, yak, and red pandas especially.
She did give me some advice, though, as chatted about what brought me to sitting next to her on this airplane before I dozed off to make the some 23 hours of traveling go faster: Make sure you look them children straight in the eyes and say their first name back to them. You’ll show them that they are still people. I told her that was definitely some valuable advice and I’ll make it a point to remember to do so. Then I fell asleep.

I am writing this now as I sit for one more hour in the Amsterdam international airport eagerly waiting to finish the trip and finally set foot on African soil.

Just a quick shout-out: Rachel Ruegemer and Mary Fox: I’m lost without my watch. It was one of the things I was going to grab in the morning before I left for the flight and didn’t remember it until turning into the airport. Sadly I don’t even have my cell phone to fall back on.

More to come. Stay tuned.

Just a little boy...

Leaving Byerly's last night with my final meal in hand, consisting of Rock 'n Roll sushi, a pair of grocery store quality wooden chopsticks, and an extra packet of soy sauce, I walked past a mother and her son loading their groceries into the back of their silver Mercedes minivan. The boy, who couldn't have been more than 3 years old, clumsily climbed up and into the van through the opening in the back, inhibiting her from accomplishing her task of securing her latest purchases and blatantly disobeying his mothers cries consisting of phrases including the infamous "Get down from there!", "You're getting all dirty!", "Stop horsing around!" But to the boy it must have sounded like Charlie Brown's principal. For he had a goal. He had a vision. He sensed an adventure that could not be missed. You could see it in his eyes, the determination that could not be deterred even by someone as powerful as his mother.

For you see, the third row seating had previously been collapsed prior to their voyage in anticipation of certain purchases of certain proportions. However, in the boy's mind 3rd row seating had now turned into a 30% grade mountain. Though not steep by any standard it nonetheless was a struggle to the summit. Pulling himself up to the saddle area between the twin peaks, seen to you and I as headrests, of this leather incline he, without hesitation, swung one leg over and exuberantly bellowed in his high-pitched voice "CANNONBALL" as he hurled his frail body off the ledge and down to the carpeted flooring of the van below. The mother locked eyes with me as I passed, and as a classic example of the label 'mother', rolled her eyes, shook her head in disgust and uttered a single word to sum up everything she could not comprehend. "Boys."

But boys will be boys. They will set out on and complete grandiose adventures hundreds of times throughout their day, even if it consists of scaling a folded down car seat. But to them it still means something. It fuels them. Stirs something inside of them. It makes them come alive. For boys were created for adventure. They were meant to challenge, push, and dare themselves into accomplishing the unknown and tackle the unforeseen.

As I walked past the mother onto my own blue beauty I smiled because you see something stirred inside of me as I watched that boy. Something awoke. It was in that moment that I was reminded that this next three months isn't just school - it's an adventure. And so as I sat myself down in the grey bucket seat of my beloved car that had become my constant over the past 8 months, I turned the ignition, gripped the steering wheel firmly with both hands precisely at 9 and 3, slammed down on the gas pedal, and shouted one word as loud as I could in a high-pitched boyish scream as I raced home to begin packing for my adventure at hand:

"CANNONBALL!!!"