Peace Corps
Trip Start
Sep 01, 2005
1
31
72
Trip End
Ongoing
Nylolo,
Tanzania
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Sitting on the side of the road we waited for a ride to Nylolo where two days prior 9 American males ages 23-28 dug a deep pit and started a large fire in it. They poured three months worth of coal in it, stacked a small chopped up tree on it, poured seven months worth of kerosene over it and lit it on fire. When it had burned down to amber coals they lowered a splayed pig on top of the pile then covered it with banana leaves and dirt.
They had several cases of beer staged with the local duka so that as the case at home was being kept from warming up, the one at the store was cooling down. A quick bicycle ride and a strap of inner tube rubber delivered 20 cold beers. The host had a large collection of music and a Sony jambox that was connected by two wires to a car battery.
The whole affair sounded like one of those parties that my long haired parents took me, where I'd fall asleep in the corner on a blanket with my closest friends. Back when country Texas was meeting country hippie at the outskirts of Austin in a peace and love, honky tonk kind of way. But, this was the remaining body of the Mfinga Peace Corps. That night they gathers with other young idealists, adventurers, independents, do-gooders and problem solvers who had ridden their bikes, hiked the trails and gotten "lifties" from their bush sites to the one in Nylolo. Like those old roads in Texas where band practice often turned into an overnight party.
There were two classes there. The smaller one was the veterans at the end of their terms, having 5 out of 24 months left. The larger one was the new comers who had been in Tanzania for about 5 months. The stories going around were priceless. All of those clashes of culture, of paradigm, often illicits that certain type of laugh which leverages one into a more fulfilling perspective.
There were about twenty volunteers at the party. All came from various backgrounds and for various reasons. All were in one state or another of problem solving and reconciliation. That particular night they took turns reconciling the pink, left over, rare pork with a frying pan.
In the daytime this motley crew from all parts of the States busied themselves in Tanzanian time starting fish ponds, planting trees, teaching people, building dams, smoking meats, helping orphans and organizing jam making and empowerment seminars. There were as many projects as there were people. The key words were "sustainable" and "boil everything."
Imagine: 22 years old sitting in an old Land Cruiser with five people that you met at the beginning of an intensive Swahili emersion class six weeks ago. You drive for hours in what looks like the African bush; Mud paths, mud houses that continuously slide away with the rain, and grass roofs that seep smoke. The farmers give it away that are truly in Africa. They are mostly women. Very dark women with eyes like deep pits and hands like calloused pliers. You drive through a village where everyone stops their work to watch the automobile rumble to the new house, the one with the shiny tin roof. They have hoed these rows since they were off of their mamas back and never seen a group of wazungos driving, much less stopping, in their village.
You get out and walk into the courtyard of your new home, where you will be living for the next two years. Look to the left and you see your first personal choo. The door to the right is your bathing room. It looks like there is a large hump growing out of the wall. You take two steps closer, squinting into the shadows of the room and see that there is a large hump, more like a mound or a mud chimney, which stretches horizontally into the room. A thud behind you reminds you of why you are here and pumps a peculiar anticipation in you.
The driver drops the bag and says "here you are."
"Do you know what this is?" you ask pointing at the sideways lump.
"Oh... yes. One minute." He leaves and then returns holding a large stick.
"These are mchwa," termites.
Like a piņata at a birthday party the mound shatters spilling hundreds of termites to the floor. "Don't worry, no poison." The driver continues to wail at the nest until the only thing left are thousands of angry, but fleeing, termites and a large crater in the wall that you would later use to hold your soap and shampoo. Later on, another volunteer would use it to hold a battery powered shower pump.
The driver gives you the key to the padlock on the door and returns to the car in a sweat. You are about to start the Peace Corps.
Your objective: Create sustainable progress.
Your method: Be creative.
Your credentials: Various degrees that don't mean crap in the African bush.
Warnings: Don't get stung by mosquitoes. Try not to eat shit. Don't show up to town meetings until everyone is there.
Your newest best friends stare at you slack jawed through the 4x4's glass windows, knowing that their time is about to come. The driver shouts "good luck," as he accelerates. The last words that anyone hears you say are "wait..."
Watching the dust clear you realize that you have plunged into something that you really know very little about. With time you realize that the friendships are what save you, and everyone else for that matter. In the end you hope to be able to recognize what progress is. It seems that that is the ultimate lesson of the Peace Corps.
After filling half of a five gallon bucket with fried pork, the earliest of the party goers retired. We bedded down on the store room floor. Through the night people continued to claim real estate. The last fellow simply buttoned up his shirt and lied down in the grass.
