The One-Year Benchmark

The rains are back, the weather has cooled, and the roads have once again turned to mud; my Form V kids are grappling with the mysteries of surface tension and elasticity, while my Form VI students are recovering from their grueling pre-national examinations; the siafu have returned, my house’s endemic cricket population has resurfaced, and the air is once again choked with giant, winged termite drones… all this can only mean one thing:

Holy crap, I’ve been here a year.

Well, technically speaking, I’ve been in country for more than a year---going on 16 months, to be exact---but this past November marked the first anniversary of my being a teacher in Songea, which I feel is a slightly more tangible accomplishment than simply existing in Tanzania for an extended period of time.  Don’t get me wrong, the three initial months of pre-service training in Morogoro were fun, but I wouldn’t really classify them as “service”… it was more like summer camp, only with fewer sing-alongs and more cultural faux pas.  Still though, as weird as it may seem right now, I guess I always figured this day would come---the day when I’d be teaching from the same notes I wrote a year ago; when I’d be celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas in the same places I did last year; when I’d be hanging out with the same friends I’ve been hanging out with for the last 52 weekends; when things, in the end, would come full circle.  It’s a strange feeling, for sure, but not entirely unexpected.

Indeed, a quick look at my service so far shows a great deal of constancy.  My daily schedule still involves teaching, chores, exercise, cooking, and sleep, interspersed with occasional marathon concertina sessions.  My social life still involves hanging out with PCVs or the Italians in town on the weekends, or, barring that, sitting alone in my house and re-watching episodes of The Wire.  What did I do for Thanksgiving?  Cooked a big meal at my sitemate’s house and ate it.  What did I do last Thanksgiving?  Cooked a big meal at my sitemate’s house and ate it, too.  Life for me here has not so much changed as it has stayed the same, and, gradually, I’ve settled into my niche here in the Songea community, enough so that I never really question my existence here in Tanzania; it’s merely a fact of life.

I guess this habituation to the Tanzanian way of life (or, rather, the PCV-in-Tanzania way of life) is, in and of itself, a change of sorts.  Rereading a bunch of my old blog posts and journal entries, I see the naïve ramblings of a kid who was simply enchanted to be in Africa---who considered each newly-learned Kiswahili word a tremendous accomplishment, wore his pikipiki burns like badges of honor, and jumped at any opportunity for so-called “cultural exchange” with the locals.  I was enthusiastic, energetic, and far less cynical than I am now: everything bad or irritating in my life could simply be chalked up to “cultural experience,” and every challenge was met with uniform, unwavering optimism---the kind that may or may not actually be well-placed, given the situation.  In sum, I was a TZ neophyte, wide-eyed and innocent, bedazzled by the concept of life in another country and eager to soak in everything Tanzania had to offer.

I can safely say now that, after a year’s worth of routine and work, much of that initial zeal has given way to lethargic acceptance.  Most of what annoyed, confused, and vexed me at the beginning of my service has been slowly reduced to mere background noise; similarly, many of my more lofty aspirations have been curtailed to fit a more realistic agenda.  Will all 172 of my Form VI physics students pass the NECTA this year?  Probably not.  How many will pass?  Maybe five, if I’m lucky.  Is there anything I can do about it?  Not really.  Am I okay with this?  Yeah, pretty much.  It’s just the way things work down here.

This isn’t to say that I’m utterly defeated and that my life is pointless.  I have a lot of stuff to keep me going here in Tanzania, and, although much of my life at Songea Boys’ has slipped into dull routine, I still feel a fundamental motivation to get things done.  My Form V students, for example, are pretty much the reason I get up and go to work every morning: unlike my absentee, senioritis-stricken Form Sixes, my Form Fives are the students whom I snatched up and began America-izing to death literally the second they arrived on campus as bewildered O-level transplantees, and, over the past two terms, I’ve been relentlessly and unabashedly grooming them into my personal army of physics and biology prodigies.  While they’re by no means perfect, they consistently show up to every class on time, and they’ll stay in the room and wait for me, even if I’m late.  Moreover, they readily participate in class discussions, and they all laugh at my jokes, no matter how stupid they are.  And, perhaps most importantly, their English is WAY better than my Form Sixes’, and they even tolerate my occasional uncontrollable outbursts of geekiness (“So, in conclusion, natural selection says that you all came from MONKEYS!  Isn’t that CRAZY?!” or “If we believe the Second Law of Thermodynamics, then one day all useful energy in the universe will turn into useless chaotic motion.  D’YOU ALL UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?!?!?!  WE’LL ALL BE DEAD!!!!”)  And yes, those were both direct quotes from the past few weeks of classes.  I’m such a dork.

Still though, despite these highlights, there’s definitely a general sense of fatigue that comes with staying one year in Tanzania; that is, while I can easily ignore or tolerate some of the routine inconveniences or cultural differences I experience here, sometimes things are just frustrating, and there isn’t really anything I can do about it except shut up and keep my slowly-festering insanity to myself.

A prime example of this is Tanzanian music.  After sixteen months of self-deception, delusions of acceptance, repeated reevaluations, and extensive mental acrobatics, I have come to the unfortunate but inevitable conclusion that I simply don’t like Tanzanian music.  At all.  I don’t like Bongo Flava, I don’t like Tanzanian hip-hop, I don’t like the “oldies” from the 60s, I don’t like the Kiswahili gospel music they pipe through the radio, I don’t like the witchdoctor drum circles, and I don’t like that genre of Tanzanian music where they get a bunch of fat ladies to dress up in their Sunday best and look depressed and belt out 9-minute songs about Jesus while they shuffle around a bit.  Honestly, from what I’ve seen, Tanzanian music was built on one beat, three chords, and the fake brass section found on your typical Casio synthesizer, and I’m convinced that the whole country listens to the same 30-song playlist that’s been around for the past 10 years.  It’s really too bad (and, in the end, my loss for being narrow-minded) that Tanzanians are a people who happen to LOVE their music, and that the concept of “noise complaints” hasn’t really hit this part of Africa yet… the general attitude when it comes to music---be it in bars, on buses, or at my neighbors’ houses at 4am on a Monday morning---is that turning your speakers up to 11 is actually a good thing---you’re, in fact, magnanimous enough to share your music with your neighbors, so that everyone can enjoy the richness and poetry of Sharobaro Recordz.  Again, I won’t say that American pop music is light-years ahead of Tanzania’s Top 10, and I’m certainly no Mozart myself, but, in the end, it’s the little things like this that begin to grate on the nerves after a year of continuous exposure.

Pet peeves aside, there are other more practical frustrations that arise after one year of service.  Why is my power always off?  Why is my seat never reserved?  Why is everyone always late to everything?  Why is there never a timetable for anything?  Why is my school having Form V midterms literally two weeks from Form V finals?  Why can’t we duplicate the key to the school’s physics lab?  Why does it take two hours to fry an egg at a restaurant?  Why can’t I buy spinach before 10am or after 4pm?  Why can’t Tanzanian waiters/cashiers do math, or at least use a calculator?  Why are stores always out of everything?  Why does NO ONE have change, EVER?  I mean, I guess I should be thankful that I do have power, that my school is doing midterms, and that I can buy spinach… but, after a year of this, that pessimistic little voice in the back of my head has begun to get the better of me: why do I need to be thankful for any of this?  Why can’t people show up on time for anything?  Why can’t Tanzanian Maritime Services Co. Ltd. or Tanzanian Railways Co. post their ferry or train schedules online?  Why can’t the conductors on the daladalas bring change with them when they start work?  Why can’t Tanesco Songea ration its diesel supply so I could have consistent power instead of the one-week-on, four-week-off B.S. I’m dealing with now?  Most of what I’ve listed is pretty basic stuff, and in these modern times, most other countries seem to get it right… why can’t Tanzania?

On top of all this, the one thing that’s really kind of gotten under my skin during my service is the casual racism.  On the one hand, I get it: I’m white (or Chinese… Tanzanians generally can’t really tell the difference, but I guess I’m racially ambiguous enough as it is), and everyone else is black.  I am a foreigner.  I no speak Kiswahili good.  I do weird stuff like use forks or go out jogging for exercise.  I hoe like a little girl.  I’m kind to stray dogs.  I listen to quiet, beatless music on headphones while refrying already-boiled strips of ugali paste and dumping beans and meat on top (in this biz, we call this a “Frito pie”… and it’s delicious).  But still, why does everyone feel the need to point out my eccentricities, all the freaking time?  I’m no stranger to being the random white guy in town---go out far enough in Appalachia in any country and you’ll definitely become the butt of ridicule---but while most countries like to keep their xenophobia to themselves (i.e. China, where people just quietly stare at you and mutter racial epithets under their breath), the modus operandi when it comes to Tanzanians is to point at you, shout “mzungu!” or “mchina!” at the top of their lungs, and laugh like you just slipped on a banana peel and landed in a pile of mousetraps.  On the one hand, this works in your favor, as people generally think that you’re incapable of anything and will often give you special treatment based on your skin color (free rides, tours around town, front seat on a bus, etc.).  On the other hand, you’re forced to pay mzungu prices everywhere, you’re routinely targeted by power-tripping immigration officers, and, wherever you go, you’re mercilessly mocked by annoying vijana (“Hello!  Yes!  Thank you, white man!” or “Chingchong hee-hong!”).  And then sometimes you get fun little exchanges like this (translated from Kiswahili):

Random Konda: “Hing-hong hwei-hwong!”

Me: “[English] And an ‘ooga-booga’ to you, too.  [Kiswahili] What do you want?”

RK: “I want 1000 shillings.”

Me: “No.”

RK: “Give me 1000 shillings, now!”

Me: “No.  Don’t ask me for money.”

RK: “C***!”

So yeah, being special is nice, but there are certain things that come with specialness that can really get you down after a while.

In closing, I wouldn’t say that I’ve hit the doldrums of my service, but I’m definitely WAY past the honeymoon period.  In no way am I saying that Tanzanians are a bad people or that Tanzania is a bad country; quite the contrary, Tanzania is a beautiful, peaceful place, and I feel incredibly lucky that I was selected to volunteer here.  It’s just that I’m human, and, in time, my fuse has shortened regarding some of the less-auspicious aspects of living in this country: one day, I’m doing a practical with my students and we’re getting solid data, the other, I’m inquiring my local Tanesco officer as to how his organization can possibly “suck so bad at everything.”  The Peace Corps experience goes both ways, and, in the end, it’s all about what you’ve gained as a person and how you’ve helped others, not about what trivial inconveniences tended to ruin your day.

And now that I'm done ruminating, it's time to get back to work.