The Last of the Wazungu

The last two weeks in Kizimkazi Dimbani have been more than I can even begin to describe. I had been warned by my professor that any explanation of what I’ve experienced here will fall well short of doing it justice. I think I finally understand why: village life is different. “Well duh,” you might say. But it’s not just that it’s different. It’s like living on an entirely different planet. Life is so much simpler living in a rural African village, and by simpler I mean a total lack of creature comforts. The first night in our homestay alone threatened the spirit of adventure that made me so excited to begin fieldwork. Sharing a much-too-small bed with Grant, draped in our much-too- small mosquito nets lead to the hottest night of my life, no doubt about it. Our mesh covered window seemed to actually repel any gust of wind, and my sheet felt as though it had recently been through the wash when I woke up. When we stumbled out to breakfast we were faced with the exact same chapati and fish that we had for dinner the night before, eating with our hands on the concrete floor, of course. I spent the morning walking around with our translator, Abas, listening to people yell mzungu (white person) and trying to survive the stifling heat. By the time I returned home I was more than disheartened. Over the next two weeks I ate fish and five different types of bread for almost every meal, bathed only twice by pouring water out of a ladle over myself, sweated what seems to have been my weight in water, woken up at 4:15 every morning thanks to the traditional Muslim wake up call (not call to prayer, just a daily alarm clock) and brigade of roosters and goats outside our window, and sat on hard cement more than I care to remember.

But all of that was more than worth it. The people of Kizimkazi Dimbani – despite blistering heat, extreme poverty, and lack of decent work – are incredibly warm and happy. They are serious workers: the fisherman often get up around 4 to make sure their boats don’t get beached with the outgoing tide and stay fishing for 5 or 6 hours, sometimes coming back with only enough to eat. But they always seem to be joking with each other, laughing genuinely and just enjoying the company. Whenever Abas passes someone in the street he smiles and greets them wholeheartedly.

Eventually, as they came  to terms with me being there and actually trying to assimilate, the kindness was extended even to me. After I went fishing with our translator in his little ngalawa (I caught the biggest fish, by the way), the story spread like wild fire. Here was this mzungu actually fishing, something they had truly never seen before. After that other fishermen often asked if I had gone fishing that day, joking about whether I was the actual boat captain instead of Abas. One day after I had been sick one of the younger men stopped me and asked why I wasn’t at the football pitch the night before, and everyone was asking if I felt better. While many have yet to learn my name – I go by John Michael, Mr. John, Mitchell, and mostly “the Mzungu” – people frequently ask the family I’m staying with about me. Most everyone is incredibly friendly and does not hesitate to greet me on the street.

And that welcoming sense of community has translated into my work. I can’t share details with you, but I can tell you that what I’ve found is incredibly fascinating –  much more, in fact, than I had ever hoped to find. Instead of finding resistance and distrust, I’ve been welcomed (although a little hesitantly) and have yet to be turned down speaking with someone. The people have some pretty strong opinions about what’s going on (again, sorry I can’t be more specific) and all seem very eager to share with me and very excited that someone is actually listening to them.

All in all my time in Kizimkazi has been worth every discomfort I’ve suffered. If anything the challenges have made it all the more rewarding. I have no doubt that when I return to the States I will come back not only with an incredible experience (emphasized by the fact that I have had the opportunity to do this as an undergrad) but with an entirely different world view. I think village life has inevitably changed me, I hope for the better. Coming back into Stone Town on Tuesday made that clear. Even the smallest things made my day. Having a table to set my things on. Running water to wash my hands. A fan. When it comes time to return home, I believe I will be much more appreciative of the innumerable blessings that I have in life, and unfortunately much more critical of the way we live. But until then, I have just over a week of village life left once I return from Stone Town. Grant will be staying in town for the remainder of his research, so I will be going it alone – the sole researcher, the last of the wazungu.

Karibu Tanzania

When I originally started this blog my aim was to keep family and friends posted on my adventures throughout Spain during last semester’s study abroad trip. Little did I know my travels would lead me just a bit farther south. For the next few weeks I will be blogging about my trip through Tanzania, starting in Dar es Salaam, working my way up to the Serengeti, and heading back east to Mafia Island for a month of research on the Mafia Island Marine Park. For now, enjoy my first post.

Somewhere over France or Germany I began to seriously doubt that I would be able to walk down the aisle once we finally got off the plane – if we ever got off, that is. It seemed like we had been traveling for days, but when we finally touched down in Dar es Salaam (after 30 or 40 hours of travel), the exhaustion left me. We had finally made it to Africa.

Walking out of the airport, the heavy, wet air covered us like a blanket. It felt just like the warmest summer nights back in Savannah, only this was supposed to be the cool season. The first things I see are a crowd of African taxi drivers vying for business and a huge bat with a wingspan on at least a foot gliding into a tree. “Oh yeah,” I thought. “We’re in Africa.”

The ride through Dar to the hotel was something else. At 11pm tons of people were still milling about, lining the sides of the highway, darting across at intervals to greet a friend or examine one the many food stands. The main buildings seemed to be well-lit by new, modern street lights, but the street itself was dark and shadowy. The food vendors relied on what appeared to be kerosene torches for light – a small example of the conflict between the new and the old; the rich and the poor; the “global” and the African.

Once I got used to the traffic and suddenly hitting patches where the road simply stopped being a road, I nodded off. When I awoke, we were cruising alongside the Indian Ocean right before pulling into the White Sands Hotel, the self proclaimed “only four star beach resort in Tanzania.” Because of the threat of a potential demonstration in Dar, a last-minute hotel switch landed us at this swanky beach-side resort (built by a former president’s wife and some corrupt businessmen).

But all of that seems like a year ago. Since then there’s been calamari steaks and tangawizi (ginger ale on steroids), boat rides to islands made of elevated coral reefs, fresh caught grilled fish (eyes and all), snorkeling, and listening to the wealth of knowledge Prof Ian has to offer. We learned how German East Africa grew into what is Tanzania today. How the coral sands of Mbudya are different from the silica sands of Dar. How to eat an entire fish with one hand. How the Tanzanians may well be the most gracious and polite people I’ve ever interacted with. In Swahili, the worst response you can have to the question “How are you?” is “Less good.”

Although our landing has been rather cushy as opposed to being thrown in head first, I feel as though I have already learned and enormous amount. I can’t wait to see what Tanzania has in store.

I Am a Jelly Donut

A little delayed, but WordPress was giving me some problems last week, so here it is!.

Last weekend was our first totally free weekend since the beginning of September. As soon as the last class ended last week (or at least the last one we were going to) the Furmanites of Madrid dispersed for the far corners of Europe. Some went to Vienna. Some went to Dublin. I, however, ventured to the heart of Deutschland, to the great walled city where JFK so infamously gaffed his potentially powerful statement of brotherhood, “I am a Berliner.”

At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect. With my limited knowledge of the post-war Germany and almost nonexistent knowledge of Berlin, I pictured it as a kind of sad, gray city. Pretty much your typical German urban powerhouse. As it turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. East Berlin, having essentially been completely rebuilt in the past few decades is thriving with life. Gone are the days of no-man’s-land and utter hell. Now, East Berlin – where we spent pretty much all of our time – is full of shops (from local quirky to 90-euros-for-a-tshirt designer), restaurants, clubs, currywurst stands, bars, and whatever else you could possibly want. The walkway by the river Spree is lined with flea markets and trees (which happened to be changing color while were there), with old, ivy-covered German buildings watching over passerby. Mitte, the central neighborhood where our apartment was is now the up and coming neighborhood for all of Berlin. Naturally, we couldn’t see all of the city (which is apparently 9 times the size of Paris when you include suburban areas), but what we did see was amazing.

Having been to more museums and sat through more tours than I can count here in Spain, we kept things of that nature to a minimum.That said, we couldn’t be in a city with an island dedicated to museums without going to at least one. The Pergamon Museum, for example, houses a collection of “classical antiquities” (basically archeological things from like the 7th century B.C) and a sizable collection of Islamic art and architecture. The DDR Museum, while not technically on the island, housed a very different kind of exhibition. Full of memorabilia and history from pre-Mauerfall Berlin, the DDR is actually a hands on museum, where you can try on era clothing, lounge on the couch in a typical Deutsche Demokratische Republik (Communist half of Berlin) living room, or try out the bed in your everyday communist jail cell. It dealt with pretty much every aspect of every day life back then, which was really interesting for someone as Berlin ignorant as I was.

But no trip to Berlin would be complete without seeing the wall, to which we devoted almost an entire day. We started off at Checkpoint Charlie, the American security checkpoint between East and West Berlin, and the adjacent wall museum, where we expected to see the murals that fill almost every Google Image search of Berlin. But no dice. Not yet willing to give up, we followed the bricks marking where the wall once stood throughout Berlin. We passed Brandenburg Gate, the Topography of Terror museum, the Memorial to Murdered Jews, and the imposing (and oh so German) Reichstag. Eventually, we realized we had been going in almost the complete wrong direction, so we hopped on the U-bahn and headed south east to the East Gallery, a mile-long section of the wall dedicated to unification and decorated with vibrant murals. Recently, however, the city commissioned a mural renovation project, and some of the restoring artists took some pretty severe artistic liberties with the original murals. Even still it was an impressive site.

I know it sounds like we mostly just walked around and looked at stuff (which is true) but what would a visit to Berlin be without a venture into its nightlife, whose reputation had far preceded itself. One night, we found our way to what appeared to be an old brewery complex that had been converted into some kind of entertainment plaza with a few clubs and restaurants. The biggest club was unfortunately reserved for a wedding party or something, but we managed to find another, much smaller club/bar thing that didn’t seem all bad. At first they were playing old American rap with throwbacks to Will Smith, Fifty Cent, Jay Z, and the likes. But after about 30 minutes everything changed drastically. I first realized something was up when the oh-so-loveable intro to Limp Bizkit’s 90s hit “Rollin” (can you hear my tongue in my cheek?) trickled from the speakers. This masterpiece was followed by a mixture of Trapt, Stained, and whatever other hard rock band you can think of. It wasn’t so bad at first because at least we knew the words and could playfully sing along. But it didn’t stop there. Before long the German rock made its obviously long anticipated debut. We had no idea what was going on, but everyone seemed to love the gibberish songs that alternated between slow, sensual breakdowns to Irish jig like choruses. Needless to say it was an experience.

The next night went a little bit better. We found a nightclub online that consistently made all of the top club lists in Berlin, and for good reason. Situated on the thirteenth floor of an office building, Weekend is surrounded by giant plate-glass windows that afford panoramic views of the entire city – perfect for catching the sunrise after a long night of partying. The comfy leather couches and powerful sound system make for a great party setting. Unfortunately, fashion in Berlin changes at a Zoolander pace, and it seemed as though Weekend had run its course. Maybe it was just a bad night, but the club never really filled up and the dj played the same house beat the entire time we were there. By about 4 everyone started filling out, and we decided it was probably high time to walk home. It was still a lot of fun though.

All in all, Berlin was an amazing city, but it was one of the hardest trips I’ve made. In Madrid, we can understand what people are asking us, read the signs telling us where to go, and actually have some idea what we’re ordering in restaurants. When I was in France last summer, it was at least close enough to Spanish that I could more or less understand the simple things (with extensive help of a travel dictionary). But German is a different story. Even thought it’s basically the sister language to English, I could hardly understand anything. The similarities are much more obvious when you can hear the word spoken out loud, but when people spoke to us I had no hope of picking out individual words. On our part, communicating involved a lot of pointing, nodding, and indistinct grunting. It was the first time I had been somewhere where I literally knew nothing about the language, culture, or city. But that’s what I loved about it. The groups that went to Dublin raved about how nice it was to hear English for a change and about how they were able to meet so many people without a language barrier. For me, the adventure of being completely immersed and completely lost is half the fun. Finding our own way around the city, decoding signs and menus, and trying to understand the guy who sold us four subway receipts instead of tickets are things I will never forget. It just amazes me how much variation there can be between cultures.

That said, I was grateful to return to Madrid. Not knowing any of the language – except the curses our cab driver taught us – made me realize how much Spanish I actually knew and appreciate the fact that I could understand what was going on in Madrid. When I climbed the stairs out of Francos Rodríguez, it felt as though I were returning home. It was a strange, yet oddly satisfying feeling.

¡Hace Gazpacho!: Our Conquest of Salamanca (Or Viceversa)

Well, Salamanca was really something else. The city itself is absolutely beautiful. Home to the fourth oldest university in the world, Salamanca continues to have the feel of a typical college town. During the academic year, the streets are full of young people causing all kinds of ruckus. For example, that weekend also happened to be a weekend of intense hazing for the new college students. Apparently, hazing is a huge tradition in Spanish universities. A few weeks ago here in Madrid, all of the older students lined the freshmen up on a subway platform and just absolutely hosed them with all kinds of condiments, then marched them through the streets, making them drink and perform all kinds of ridiculous tasks. One kid was shoved into an overhead cabinet for like 6 hours or something. And it’s not  just guys either. Literally every new student gets hazed. In Salamanca, we saw all kinds of people wandering the streets in different costumes, from guys in German wench costumes to guys in penis costumes (this may have been something else entirely, but it makes sense that it was hazing right?)

That’s a bold move, Cotton.

But at night was when everything really went down. The upperclassmen (marked with a permanent marker “v” for veterano) literally had free reign to make the freshmen do whatever they wanted: unhealthy amounts of forced drinking, embarrassing tasks – you name it they probably had to do it. And Furman thinks they have hazing problems. It’s so bizarre to think that this is pretty much accepted as the thing to do when scavenger hunts are considered hazing at good old FU. Here’s to the bubble!

Anyway, the nightlife in Salamanca is crazy. What it lacks in big, glamourous night clubs it more than makes up for in atmosphere. Think somewhere along the lines of bars in Athens (Georgia, naturally). Every college student is out in the streets with barely room to squeeze through. Bars sell 80 centavo beers and bump music all night. It was so much fun.

Yet Salamanca’s historical roots provides an interesting architectural contrast to the university life. For me, it was very reminiscent of Oxford, England but with a good bit more pizzaz. Centered around the main Romantic/Gothic cathedral (half was built in the Romantic style, half later in Gothic style) the town is full of impressive old buildings and plazas, from the Duchess of Alba’s swanky palace (in which she still lives) to Casa de los Muertos, where legend holds that a jealous man secretly murdered every last one of his unfaithful wife’s lovers. The main cathedral, however, is definitely the biggest attraction due to its age, the mix of architectural styles, and the astronaut carved into its facade during the renovation after the earthquake in Lisboa. All in all it was an incredibly fascinating place, but I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat desensitized to things like this. We seen so many old things, so many churches, and so many views in the past month that it’s all turning into one big blur. I probably couldn’t pick out the cathedral of Salamanca from the cathedral of Toledo from the cathedral of Santiago from the gazillion other churches we’ve seen. It will be nice to get to Barcelona, where we have much more free time that touring.

But I think Salamanca could sense our indifference. We failed to show the city the love it deserved, and it didn’t let us leave without paying the price. First, on Saturday night three of the girls got their jackets stolen from a bar (which contained a variety of things from cell phones to wallets). Then, almost simultaneously, all but four of us fell violently ill with food poisoning Sunday night. It was one of the worst nights of my life. I woke up almost every hour on the hour to purge myself of whatever food had poisoned me in whatever manner my body deemed fit. And I had one of the milder cases. On Monday the only people that went to class were the four that didn’t get sick. Today, only eight of us were there. Hopefully everyone will be better for Barcelona tomorrow. It would be a shame to miss out on that one.

All in all, I’m sure Salamanca is an amazing place, but after Sunday night/Monday morning, it will take a lot to get me to go back! Fortunately, I did take a decent amount of photos to look back on once my stomach is ready to bury the hatchet.

Principios

We’re here. We’re finally here. After months of waiting, five hours at the airport (Dylan and I accidentally got there a few hours early, but we did see Kiki Palmer), two hours of sitting at the gate, and an eight hour flight, we have arrived in Madrid. Por fin!

When we arrived, my madre, Teresa, picked me up and gave me a short driving tour of the city. It is absolutely beautiful. I can’t wait to see more! It was a short tour, however, because I was dying of hunger. No worries though, because Teresa likes to cook as much as I like to eat! She made me two sandwiches (one with Spanish chorrizo), and a few hours later, after a shower and unpacking, she made the real meal, la comida, which is eaten usually around 3. We had avocado halves with crushed tomato, roasted chicken and french fries, and manchego cheese and bananas with some Savannah Bee tupelo honey. With my stomach full, I slept for a good three hours, and met up with the group for a tour of Nebrijas.

Today, we experienced our first taste of how Spain works. After orientation and our placement test, we took the Metro out to Gran Vía to try to buy cell phones. What a disaster. We went to three MoviStar (the number one provider) stores, but two didn’t have any cheap phones, and the third – the largest in Madrid – only had five, none of which actually worked. In the US, employees would be checking the back or even calling other stores to find phones. Not in Madrid. Everything depends on your captor’s mood. Eventually, we settled on another company, Orange, but they won’t have the phones until Wednesday. Fortunately, Teresa had a phone from a previous student, so I just had to recharge the minutes. Besides that, I’m skipping my siesta for today to write this, so there isn’t much going on. It’s so exciting/flustering/surreal to be in a totally different country, communicating – or at least trying to communicate – in a different language. Needless to say it’s going to take some getting used to, especially with this jetlag!

I think sometime after dinner tonight some of us are going to try to go out and see some of the city, maybe down around Plaza del Sol, one of the main centers in Madrid.

Until my next post, hopefully with pictures, hasta luego.