Days go by and I often forget how life in Africa can be so different than life in the States. Events from this past weekend remind me that I am going to really miss Tanzania when I leave in June.

On Saturday, I was driving to a friend’s house when I was stopped by a policeman who flagged me down from the side of the road. In Swahili, he asked for my license and then asked for me to show him that the brakes, lights, windshield wipers, etc. work. Seeing that everything worked properly, he started talking about something outside the car. Unfamiliar with these Swahili words, I got out to see that he was pointing to rust on the side of the car. He led me around the car to point out all the spots that had some rust. I replied in English (due to my limited Swahili) that it’s true, that it is an old car. He told me that the rust was “a problem” and that I would have to pay a fine of 20,000 Tanzanian Shillings (about $18). Flabbergasted, I responded saying, “I’m very sorry, but I don’t do fines. Please just take me to court.” We argued about it for a few minutes. He kept saying that court was unnecessary, but I insisted that I preferred going to court. He then left with my license to deal with another driver. Returning five to ten minutes later, he asked if I was ready for the fine papers. I said no, and insisted that I just wanted the court date. Having grown up in East Africa, I know all too well of the common occurrence of “kitu kidogo” (Swahili for the polite way of asking for a bribe). At that moment, I remembered that humor was probably my best tactic. In broken Swahili, I laughed saying that receiving a court date was better for me since I would just get my dad who I borrowed the car from to show for court. He then laughed with me and finally he let me go.   

Sunday brought me more amusement. I was walking from my home to the grocery store to buy some margarine when I met an eleven-year-old girl named Mariam on the road. She struck up conversation with me since we were walking in the same direction. Although she was from my neighborhood, she looked like a typical village girl, all except for the fact that she was wearing slippers instead of walking barefoot. She had a sarong wrapped around her over a ragged, oversized dress. On her head, she carried a large, heavy plastic bucket of rice which she was taking to the mill to be processed into flour for her mother’s roadside snack business. She rejected my offer to assist her with the bucket and made her own offer to carry my umbrella.

Walking side-by-side, we used up all the Swahili I know. Going an extra half-mile out of her way, she accompanied me to the grocery store, located (ironically) at the most modern mall in Tanzania. The contrast between this girl, with the big bucket on her head, and the westernized mall around us intrigued me. After buying the margarine and some chocolate, as was her request, we then walked to complete her chore down some muddy back roads where chickens dart across the street. Somehow, at the end of the walk, I felt like we were two peas in a pod.

Making friends and laughter with strangers is an everyday experience here that I will dearly miss when I go. Life in Tanzania is lived in a sense of community in which people prefer to sit with strangers than to sit alone. I find that if I am ever alone at a roadside restaurant waiting for a friend, people who come in and see me by myself often choose to join my table although there are empty ones nearby. Not only do they want to “alleviate” me from my aloneness, these strangers courteously welcome me with a “karibu” to the food they have ordered. Life, I am ever finding out, becomes richer and more amusing when we all accept each other as peas in a pod.

I am now helping out at two MFIs– Tujijenge Tanzania and BRAC Tanzania, which have distinct and contrasting personalities when it comes to operation. BRAC, where I’ve been working part-time for the last month, is the largest NGO in the world– I am told. BRAC originated in Bangladesh, and although it only came to Tanzania in 2006, it already has 40+ branch offices around the country. While there are 14 branch offices in Dar es Salaam alone, my work mostly consists of posting business profiles on the internet and occasionally training branch managers on the interviewing process. Besides learning about the extensive work of this well-established NGO, my favorite thing about BRAC is being able to practice the Bengali I had learned in 2006 while living for 6 months in Kolkata, India.

Tujijenge, on the other hand, is small, and for this reason, feels personal (for an institution that is). The first few months of working there, I enjoyed talking with the clients and interviewing them for the Kiva business profiles. Also, the Tujijenge staff are so wonderful and have allowed me a glimpse of the beauty of Tanzanian culture.

One thing that comes to mind was the discovery of what went into their weekly newsletters regarding my presence as a westerner at their office. Over the past 2-3 months, I’ve become friends with the marketing staff person, Ann, who writes the weekly newsletters. Not long ago, I caught her laughing at something she was reading on her laptop and asked what was so funny. In response, she asked me if I had read the last October newsletter written the week I had just begun working at their office. Since the newsletters are mostly in Swahili, and thus the answer was obvious, she proceeded to tell me what she had written. Apparently it had been a difficult week for the head accountant, Mariam, whose office I had been using to do my work (since then, I have moved to Ann’s office due to internet access). During this first week with Tujijenge, there was also another non-Swahili speaker named Sam in Mariam’s office, who had been brought from Uganda to work on the computer software. As a result, the newsletter went something like this:

Staff member Kiloko: ‘Mariam, why are you looking so ill this week?’

Head accountant: ‘I have been taking Panadol everyday this week (Panadol is one of Tanzania’s leading Tylenol’s) . I turn to one side and say, “Yes, Sam, the computer is…” and I turn to the other and say “Hello, Dana, how are…?”’

Completely confused about why this was funny, I probed Ann with questions. I finally came to understand that taking Panadol is a joke among Swahili-speakers for when they are required to speak English and don’t feel comfortable doing so.

The interesting thing I’ve found here in Dar es Salaam is that using English is rarely required for many Tanzanians, even at the work place. While their initial interview for a job is often conducted in English, it is common for the rest of the job to be done purely in Swahili. The same is true at Tujijenge, where the staff speak Swahili to each other and to their clients. It is only for visitors like me that they must remember the English they were taught from their schooling days.

Ann told me that the Panadol joke was well known around Tanzania, and that even the previous day, a visitor had used it when visiting the office. Ann had invited him to join her and me in her office, but he refused saying that if he did, he would first have to go out and buy a big tub of Panadol. Previously oblivious to this humor, for which I now realize I am often a main cause, I have since then decided to start taking advantage of their clever Panadol joke. One day, while addressing all of the loan officers about Kiva information, I told them that if they had any questions, they could approach me anytime. I then added that if they preferred, they could ask the questions to my partner/translator instead, which might save them from first having to go out and buying Panadol. They all laughed and I felt a strand closer to understanding their culture.

Learning more about Tanzanian culture has been a fascinating journey thus far. Like most things in life, the more I learn, the more I discover how little I know. As my relationships slowly deepen with my colleagues at Tujijenge Tanzania and with other new friends, I’m beginning to gradually pick up more insights into their culture– their high values of community and unity, and how everything seems to happen according to the belief “if God wills” –a phrase used frequently in everyday interactions (and especially to explain the common occurrence of when things don’t happen as planned).

One of my favorite parts of the day is chatting with staff at the office during lunch and tea times. My translator (a woman in her fifties) and I are now on a level of friendship where we can swap stories that amuse each other due to our cultural differences. I am shocked by her stories about polygamy and witchcraft, and other intriguing topics. Among many other things, she is shocked at my American interaction with my parents, finding it hard to believe that I no longer have to ask permission to stay a night at a friend’s, etc. She also laughs at my “indifference” toward my current wardrobe– a mixture of traditional Tanzanian wear and some typical American business-casual. She has nicely pointed out to me which clothes she thinks look “bad” on me. Ironically enough, her favorites are my western clothes– the ones that conceal my efforts to try to fit in culturally. They are also the clothes that (for some strange reason) make me look really young here and have often given me the “student discount” when riding public transportation!!

While I have been trying to pick up the language, I have had many moments of embarrassment in this difficult process. Here are a few of my Swahili blunders for you to enjoy:

• Once, I told my translator in a van taxi to “sit on her butt.” After she and the entire van laughed at my ignorant rudeness, I learned that this phrase was falsely indicated as being proper in my Say it in Swahili book.

• Another time in a van taxi, instead of asking a client if he had a wife, I accidentally used a word that would generally mean an “old woman.” As if this wasn’t bad enough, in this specific context, I found out that I was really asking him if he had a “mistress.” Although forgiving of my blunder, he understandably didn’t want to answer any more of my questions in the crowded vehicle!!

• One time, out on the field, I unknowingly asked a client if she could “manage her husband.”

• On the way to work one morning, a guy walking past on the road joked with me that I was his “mchumba” or fiancé. At the time, I mistook the word for “chumba” meaning “room,” and so nicely agreed with him, thinking he was referring to something about the location of where I lived. He responded overly happy, so when I reached the office, I had someone clear the confusion for me. Fortunately, I haven’t run into him again since!

• This past Thursday at the office, I accidentally told a client, “Please, sit down on your one, small bottom.”

I have quickly learned in these past two months that Tanzanians are not only friendly, but they are very forgiving as well. For my sake (and for Kiva’s reputation!!), you should be happy to know that I have just started taking weekly Swahili lessons! My tutor, a neighbor of mine, is a government-paid teacher who holds a master’s degree but has yet to earn a salary indicating this credential. To support his family, he and his wife constantly search for additional odd jobs to get by– a common story I have encountered here.

So, Mpaka baadaye “until next time”…

On Saturday, I visited an oncology hospital with the women from my church community group, which meets weekly for Bible study. I found the hospital, which is ironically located next to the president’s palace, to be a place of little hope. Because it is a referral center where patients come from all over the country when rejected by local hospitals (which don’t have the means to treat or often even diagnose the cancer), the patients come during the last stages of their life. By the time they reach this hospital, their cancer has generally spread all over the body and is irrevocable.

During our 2 hour visit, I spent my time in the children’s ward where 20 beds were lined single file against the two walls. I tried talking to the kids and their mothers with my limited Swahili as I sat with them on their beds (single beds that are each shared by two patients and their two mothers every night). Many of the children had lost an eye (left uncovered) due to lymphoma and had other such cancer treatment remnants. The ones with any energy left in their bodies enjoyed our small gift of a pencil and notebook. I took turns drawing pictures with a girl named Vicky, around 9-years-old. They were all so precious.

In my opinion, the hospital lacks the equipment and resources it should have primarily due to national (and global!) financial priorities. With so much need in Tanzania, this hospital is left with not enough beds, medicine, and basic machinery– although it is the primary oncology hospital in the country! The machine that checks electrolytes has been broken for 2 years and has yet to be repaired, which would cost about 2 million shillings ($1,800). The machine that should work to position people properly for radiotherapy has yet to be bought, thus leaving the patients with unnecessary side effects such as intestinal and bone marrow decay. The situation is that at this hospital, even if more clients were to receive proper treatment and prolong their lives even by a few extra months or weeks, there would be no room for them anyway. Since the clients are literally on their deathbed, who can blame anyone for the prevailing attitude that money could be spent better elsewhere.

I left the hospital depressed, but also inspired. There are people out there who care about injustice and often don’t know how to tangibly help. Maybe in the future, the Kiva model– through the use of the internet– will prove to bring more awareness of ways they can get involved with issues that may feel so distant.

My translator/partner Rita and I at the Tujijenge office.

I feel like the deaf player on the team. While everything is said in Swahili and only a few of them know any English, I simply watch and try to figure out where I am supposed to be on the court. If I am in the wrong spot during a drill, I quickly know when I suddenly hear a chorus of shouts: “Diana, Diana!!” I then scramble to where they point.
I find myself drawn to the sport because of the players. These women are incredibly motivated, and humor is a key element in their game. Only a few of the women own running shoes, and some even play barefoot. Some are even in their forties, and have had several children, and yet are still trying to do sit-ups and sprints. These hardcore women amaze me.

This past weekend was definitely the first time in my life that I have ever woken up on a Saturday morning for a 6am practice! The trainer asked if I was available to practice other mornings of the week (and knowing that he probably meant 5am before work hours) I definitely said no… To me, sleep is also a sport I love dearly =)

This type of journalism work is actually my dream job. Hearing people’s stories– their ingenuity, successes, failures, and dreams– inspire me. This past week, I’ve observed that Kiva uses the trickle-down-theory of development to some degree. While they target their resources to individuals within the poverty bracket, there are so many more people in greater need that are dependent on these individuals. It was common to find that the businessmen and businesswomen, whom I interviewed, were taking care of their orphaned nieces and nephews. Some of them, even with their considerably small profits, also employed assistants for their businesses.

The different levels of poverty are remarkable. Each has its own level of vulnerability. Nevertheless, there is great joy when one has experienced suffering and still can live out hope. What excitement there is when a parent can begin providing the basic needs of their family– school fees, medicine, clean water, food, etc. Even my translator, a woman of middleclass, exclaimed with amazement after I had visited her home one afternoon, “Can you imagine, we have such a large family but our home has never gone without enough food!” With only three children of her own, she and her husband care for a house of 11.

After my brief introduction to the MFI on Wednesday, I returned to the office on Friday for my first day of work. Friday is “office day,” in which all the loan officers take a break from going out to the field. They spend the day catching up on paperwork and attending meetings at the office. After being introduced to everyone, I sat through a logistics meeting mostly in Swahili. I figure that the more I am placed in situations like that in which I don’t understand the language, the more motivation I will get to learn Swahili. As a consequence, my room at my parents’ house is now nicely decorated with Swahili labels for objects such as “bed” and “clothes” and “alarm clock.”

The staff at Tujijenge seem really amazing– so friendly and hospitable, of course, as is Tanzanian culture. I have been given a desk already, and a partner/translator who will help me in my interviewing on the field- which is to begin on Monday…

Yesterday, downtown Dar es Salaam, I met a Tanzanian at an outside venders’ plaza, where I enjoyed a cup of chai and a chapatti as I read my “Say it in Swahili” book and looked out at the beautiful Indian Ocean. I quickly found that this young man and I had quite a bit in common regarding our interests in social justice and development. He is currently working for an NGO that works with UNICEF and other development bigwigs that focus on youth. He told me about how their organization partners with a funding body in Denmark and amused me with stories about how his job often ends up being to “baby-sit” Danish high-schoolers who come over to volunteer for a month or two at a time. Ironically, he tried teaching me some Danish words, which was clearly counterproductive to my efforts to learn Swahili.

One topic in our lengthy conversation particularly intrigued me. He told me about how he has recently been going to various workshops on “gender” for his job and how he found the issue a “great challenge.” He talked about how, from these seminars, he was beginning to see the need for change in African culture. He asked my opinion about the topic– little did he know that “gender” is right up there with spiritual philosophy as far as my passions are concerned. While I have yet to come up with my own theories regarding gender and development (which perhaps I will do someday soon in grad school), he told me that his personal theory for Tanzania was that the gap between the genders would be reduced slowly by first educating the men about respecting and valuing women, and then subsequently, by bringing awareness to the women about empowerment. He said that, like for him, other men could become aware of this problem and be the leaders to bring about change from a top down approach. In front of all the men that sat at the table around us, who had been eavesdropping in on our conversation the entire time, he stated that he was committed to becoming a good example for other men to follow and that he would be a good husband that promoted gender equality in his home. My “gender boy” friend– which he later humorously referred to himself as in case I had forgotten his name– brings a smile to my face. There is hope for Tanzania, as there is hope for Africa, and America, and for everywhere else the gap remains.

I am reminded of a recent blessing from a close friend– “May you never stop living for the day when women everywhere are treated with dignity.”