So I believe in karma. Sort of. I don't really have a clear definition of how it works. Whether you have to do something good for someone in order to get something good or if something good happens to you then you need to do something good for someone else or if you do something bad to someone then you wont have anything good happen...

Point is: karma. Okay, so I know I take from my good karma bucket from time to time. I try to refill it if I can. So I became more concerned about this in the summer of '06 when my friend Neil and I hitched all over Hawaii being bums. A lot of nice people gave us rides. Hell the last ride we ended up in bought us dinner. So I always wanted to refill that karma bucket so to speak. I determined that i would pick up hitch-hikers if I ever saw them, but there was a problem with that. I live in California where only crazy people pick up hitch-hikers (I do fit that profile) and more importantly only crazy people hitch. So I didn't find anyone. I think the one time I saw a hitch-hiker I didn't have any room in my truck.

Anyway, I never really felt I filled up the bucket after that. Thing was that people kept doing nice stuff for me. It wasn't all too long after that when I ended up confused on the side of the road with a pretty serious concussion. A nice young couple were nice enough to take me and my bicycle to the nearest hospital, leaving one of their own bikes behind to make room for mine. Not that I remember any of that, on account of the concussion, but I'm sure it happened.

These days I carry around latex gloves with me so that if I ever need to help someone who's injured I can do so with no fear. I've never put them on.

So I joined the Peace Corps, thinking that it would put into my good karma bucket. Then things got a little more complex. I think I'm still pulling out of my good karma bucket. Plenty of nice things have happened to me since I've gotten here. I don't think I've really returned the favors so much.

I mean, some of the things I've done have been beneficial to some, sure. Point is that it doesn't make up for all the good things that people have done for me. I don't know, will the karma run out at some really inconvenient point? I really hope I don't end up on the side of the road with a head injury again and no one stops to help...

Much of Tanzania believes in magic of some form or another. I've met witch doctors and the like. I've been accused of being a product of magic. Mostly I don't associate myself with anything relating to magic, it seems to be a bad idea.

There are many examples of magic here, and everyone's favorite is Popo Bawa. Popo Bawa is a bat demon from Pemba. He generally roams the islands causing all sorts of mayhem, and occasionally he makes it over to the mainland on the coast. The story is that Popo Bawa is a three foot tall one eyed very well endowed creature. He comes to men in the night and they awaken unable to move or speak. Popo Bawa proceeds to sodomize them for any amount of time. Then if his victim does not tell everyone about his ass-raping experience, the evil bat-man will come back the next night and do it for twice as long.

So when Popo comes along people freak out. They sleep, en-mass, on roofs and in lawns because the demon can't get you if you're not in bed. The local government will drive around with loudspeakers proclaiming that Popo Bawa does not exist. But that's not the real way to get ride of the pesky critter. No, the leader of the wachawe (wizards, witch doctors, magical men, however you want to translate it) called together a bunch of men to go out into the forest, have sex with a bunch of cows and then slaughter the cows. Apparently that's a huge turn off for Popo Bawa and he left.

Another fun thing that the wachawe do is fly. Witches fly, it's what they do. So here in Tanzania they fly by turning themselves into a white powder and floating through the air. Problems come if they don't properly prepare. A little while back a woman from Mbeya was trying to fly to Dar es Salaam and didn't prepare properly. She fell from the sky in Dodoma and landed on someones roof, face covered in white powder. When questioned by the police she admitted to witchcraft and was sent to jail. Now, I learned this story from national television. On the news. I've talked to university educated Tanzanians who have no doubt that this woman was in the process of flying when she dropped from the sky.

Sometimes things take on a more sinister approach. Miners are strong believers in magic. Recently I was talking to PCV who is located in a very poor part of the desert near Dodoma. There the locals make approximately 30,000/= per year. That's roughly $25. Then someone discovered that there were sapphires in the ground. Obviously those are worth a large amount of money. The problem is that they're hard to find, however it is believed that burring a human body part will bring them to the surface. So some miners find a drunk guy or a street kid, chop of his hand, genitals, heart, whatever and bury it in the ground so that they too can find wealth in sapphires. Yes, the locals are terrified of this practice.

Subsequently sales of human body parts are pretty common. I heard a story about a woman in Arusha (my banking town) who was caught with a box full of children's genitals. I've heard about a man wandering around Dar with a bag full of albino heads, as albinos are considered to have special magical powers.

So when I hear my neighbors chanting at 3 AM, also known as the witching hour (to be fair, also used as the anti-witching hour) I tend to try and ignore it. I don't believe in magic, but it does terrify me just a little bit.

Peace Corps is a great cultural experience. We all get to go out and live in a new culture and write home to tell all about it, but there's a culture that is rarely written about: the culture of Peace Corps.

First I think it's necessary to give a little background about Volunteers. Our average age is something like 25. A vast majority of volunteers are, like me, fresh out of college. Beyond that there's few things to unite us. Some people came out of moral obligation to the poor, some people came for adventure, some people came to relax for two year and study for their MCATs. There is a whole slew of reasons why people came.

As another part of the culture, we get thrown together, packed on buses and planes, and dumped into training. Where nearly everyone proceeds to lose their mind. We're suddenly transformed into middle schoolers, bickering about who sits at what seat, gossiping about who has a crush on who and so on.

Then we get a swift (but gentle) kick in the ass and we're off to remote villages to do some random job. Here we face general isolation, loneliness, and further culture shock. On weekends we all meet up again and form our own little culture.

So there are some strange things we do. Like sleep together. Now I use that in the complete literal meaning. To quote Kate, "Never before have I slept with so many people and gotten so little action." Double occupancy rooms fit six people. A twin bed can fit 3, in a pinch. Asking to share a bed with a person of the opposite sex isn't actually that taboo, and no thought goes into sharing a room. I mean, you could say it comes from our subjective poverty, or the product of a 15 person party in a two bedroom house. Whatever, we do it.

We're proud of our shit. I also mean that literally. We have a club, called the "Opps I pooped my pants" club. Oh yeah, I'm a proud member (I joined while running, imagine the fun). I know of no one who is not. We have a slang word, vooping which means vomiting and pooping at the same time. I mean, be surprised we get sick. Giardia, amoebic and bacterical dysentery are common ailments, not to mention the common intestinal parasites which we don't bother identifying. So the shame died after about a week of training, jokes started a couple weeks later, and by the end it was pride. It's just a right of passage I suppose.

Every PCV is your friend. Okay, so this one is less absolute, but still pretty much applies. We're happy to have people we've never met come sleep at our houses (and our beds). They just need to know the secret Peace Corps handshake and they're like family. PCVs from South Africa, Nigeria, Malawi, Mozambique, Kenya, and other places roll through, send a few emails and they've got a place to stay. It goes both ways and it's pretty much expected. Plus friendships are formed where it wouldn't be considered normal in America. Kate is 62 and she hangs out with a bunch of 20 something years olds. We all love her and she referres to us as the children she never wanted.

Further with the shit thing. Actually nothing is really to personal. I know about other PCVs' pap smears. PCVs with whom I do not have romantic relations. We'll help each other dig parasites out of each others' feet. At one point there was a flow chart in a newletter about who gave who scabies.

Now if you couple that last paragraph with the subconscious thought that no one around understands English, things can get awkward. The most fun example I have of this is when two PCVs were talking about sex on a dala-dala, and I mean explicitly, when one noticed that his best student was sitting across from them. Opps.

Then we have to go back to America and try to fit in again. We've all been told it's harder than the other way around. Reverse culture shock is a bitch, they say. So I guess be prepared when your sons and daughters come home with some new quirks. I think we were all a little quirky to begin with to get join this thing.

The rain has come again. Farmers are out sowing their fields, herders a bringing their cows to frest growing pastures, flowers are starting to bloom, dung beetles are busy rolling their balls of shit, electricity cuts out daily, roads have become slippery messes and I have again joined the modern age with functioning indoor plumbing. Recently, life has been getting difficult for the people of Arusha. In mid February a strange monsoon came down from Kenya and drenched our parched savanna for a week. Nearly every farmer scrambled to get seed into the ground for they thought it was the beginning of the long rains. Their plants grew to about half a meter before they became utterly dried up and died. In the past week or two the rains have been coming heavy everyday, so again the farmers are out tirelessly hoeing and planting.

It's still looking to be a hard year for many, as they have now spent twice what they usually spend on seed and the late start of the season doesn't mean a late end. From what I've heard the rains have been coming later and ending earlier. Something about the climate changing...

Sunday was the Kilimanjaro Marathon. I had been training for it for several months and I was pretty ready. Now in case you don't know this about me, I don't like shoes very much. I could go on for a while about how running shoes encourage bad running and whatnot, but who cares. I ran the San Francisco Marathon barefoot with no problems. Coming up to this one I knew that the road would be really rough and steep, and I figured my feet couldn't take it. So for months I had been training in Maasai shoes, which are sandals made of old tires. It's enough shoe to keep the skin on my feet, which is really all I want from a shoe anyway.

Okay, so I started off the marathon in said shoes. After about 3 km the road had been very smooth, so I figure what the hell, I want to barefoot some of it. So I pull the things off, slide them down my forearms and run a bit. At about 8 km the road has been getting pretty rough and I figure I ought to put back on the shoes. So I go to pull them on and they break. I've pulled them on hundreds of times and no problems whatsoever. But there I was in 8 km into a marathon and broken shoes. So I say out loud to myself "Really?" Shrug my shoulders, say to hell with it, toss the shoes to the side of the road (I'm sure someone will pick them up, fix them and wear them. It's not really littering.) and keep going.

So now a note on the course for the kili marathon. It starts out with some rolling hills around Moshi town, then at the halfway mark it starts up a fairly steep hill. That hill goes for 11 km. It's a killer run.

The biggest problem I have with hills is that they significantly increase the friction on the bottom of my feet. Not to mention that the road is very rough. The blacktop is probably 20 years old. That is precisely the reason I was going to actually wear something on my feet. So by the time I got to the top of the hill I was having a hard time pushing myself past the pain in my feet and the exhaustion. I had walked a bunch at this point. However I was at the 3/4 mark only a few minutes past 3 hours. I was at the halfway mark by something like 1:50. It was still possible for me to finish in my under 4 hour goal.

Running downhill on crappy road hurt worse than going up-hill I quickly found. I couldn't really force myself to run on it, so I looked around and noticed a dirt trail running somewhat parallel to the road, so I went for it. People were even more confused.

It still wasn't fun. There were thorns.

After more time, the trail disappeared and I had to return to the road. That was painful. It got to a point where I couldn't walk without pretty bad pain. I started looking around for a kid with big feet so I could steal his shoes (or maybe buy them). Then I realized I could go to a shop. They're everywhere. So I ran inside, grabbed a pair of shower shoes (These are cheap plastic flip-flops) and started running. Sort of. Flip-flops are hard to run in. This was at kilometer 38.

I finished the Kilimanjaro Marathon in flip-flops, with very little skin on my feet (enough to keep the blood in) in something like four and a half hours. The blister on my little toe was pretty much the same size as the toe. I'm sore. I'm disappointed that I didn't make my under 4 hour mark, especially since at the half I was on track for a 3:40 finish. Though I can chuckle a little bit at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Photo by Kit Mitchell © 2009

The aftermath

Also, there was a really cute story in there. Near the end there are a lot of kids who like to run alongside the marathoners. I had a kid start running with me a little before I grabbed my flip-flops and after. I had to walk kind of a lot. Every time I started running again I would groan or mutter some profanity (I assume the kid didn't understand it. I hope.). So at one point he said "Just a little more." I kind of said something like "Yeah, yeah." Then another time he said "You're already done." (This is typical in Swahili to say you have already arrived when you're almost there). I said "I'm not done yet." His response was something like "You've given it your heart. In your heart you've already won."

Satcom is an internet service provider which is both brilliant and terrible. They managed to nab the contract for providing internet to every single teacher's college in Tanzania. From what I'm told they did this at a price that was well above the market price. What's even more brilliant (and terrible) is that they managed slip a little something into their contract which stipulated that all maintenence must be done by them for a very high cost. So in short, if someone trips over a wire, the Ministry of Education has to pay for them to fix it. If they messed up a configuration, the Ministry must pay for them to fix it. If they provided faulty equipment, the Ministry must pay. This paying includes transport for some technician to come all the way from Dar es Saalam. This technician also barely speaks english. Not that that in and of itself is bad, but considering that every educational institution past primary school is required to be taught in English he should really know it. Or perhaps he just isn't very well educated, which beggs the question of why the hell he's getting paid to travel all over the country to fix high-end satellite equipment. We'll note that the coaxial cables made for us were not properly crimped so if someone tried to move something the would come disconnected and the internet would fail. So the Ministry is paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to this company while schools are shutting down early because they can't afford food. I'm not really sure if priorities are set correctly. Reading a contract before signing it would be nice. I mean, so would a lot of other things too.

I've never really felt the need to fit in where I was. I was accepted in a several circles, some big some small. I don't really know if I fit the mold, I didn't really care.

So now here I am in a vastly different place. I don't fit the mold. Shit, I can't even squeeze an arm into that mold. I don't fit in. The way I look, the way I talk, the way I act, the way I think, every thing about me is different. Every interaction I have with people here is notably different from the way they treat other people. Some people find my actions comical. People laugh when I buy vegetables. People laugh when I trip. People laugh when I walk into a bathroom. Apparently this is funny.

Some people mock me. I can't count the number of times kids have made fun of my accent. I don't want to think about the number of times people have tested my ability to speak Swahili. I've grown tired of telling people not to say obviously mean things to me.

As far as I know I share a similar set of 26 chromosomes. I came into this world in bloody, gooey mess just like everyone else. When I was little I played games with sticks, just like every other kid. When I fall down I bleed. When people do mean things I get sad too.

I'm here. I'm made of the same flesh and bone as every other person. So why is that I can't be human? I don't really care that everyone thinks I'm different. I am. I don't think I'm asking for a lot. I'm not asking people to like me. I'm not asking them to help me. I just want to be a real boy.

March 1st is the Kilimanjaro Marathon. I said last year that I would run in it this year, so I've been training for it. Now I've been running around Monduli for the last year or so, doing short distances out into fields where the local Maasai kids are out watching their father's goats and cows. Like most groups of kids they range between fun and terrible. Most of the local kids are used to me by now and get a kick out of greeting me in Maa or running with me for a little while. It took a while for that to be all they did, as they used to ask me for money or yell "mzungu" at me. One time was particularly bad when a group of kids with sticks (they use them for hearding) started chasing me and yelling that they were going to hit me if I didn't give them money. I turned the tables on them and chased them telling them I was going to hit them. Luckily they ran away, because I'm not really one for beating up on children, plus the fact that there were a half a dozen of them with sticks. I'm pretty sure I would have gotten my ass kicked.

I still get called mzungu when I run. That is just life in Tanzania. On the other hand, many people know my name now. Many people whom I've never talked to. I guess word spreads about the crazy white guy who runs around without shoes on. Though I was crazy for that in America too. And besides, most of the time I wear sandals.

In the last couple of months I've been increasing my distance to get ready for the marathon and it's been interesting to see what happens as I get farther and farther away from town. Within a half hour run of town I get a mixure of "Vipi Jakobo" and "Hey mzungu!" the later of which I ignore. As I get farther out they turn into "mzungu?" or possibly "Hey guys! Check this out, there's a white guy running in the road!" Then as I get farther out it turns into sideways, confused stares, and sometimes they say something in Maa that I don't understand. Then today was the first of my three hour runs and at about the farthest point away on it I came upon several women at the water pump. When they saw me they dropped everything and ran as fast as they could in random directions. I'm talking dropping buckets, kangas drifting away behind them, shoes flying off. I'm pretty sure it would be the same response if they saw a lion. I yelled out "Please don't be afraid!" but they kept running. It's possible that they didn't understand Swahili, but still. I like to think I'm not that terrifying.

Running out in the bush is probably the most "Peace Corps" experience I get. It's kind of odd sometimes.

So this is Christmas. This year Kit and I decided we would go climb Mt. Hanang, which is a 3400 meter mountain about a 5 hour bus ride away. So we made the arrangements and hopped on a bus. After a long and bumpy ride involving the death of not one, but two cows we arrived in Katesh, which is situated 2 hours by foot from the base of Hanang. We crashed for the night at PCV Korie's house and headed out early in the morning. Now, we had directions on what road to take, but really there's no way to give directions through the villages of anywhere in Tanzania. If I were to give directions to someone I would tell them to walk towards the mountain and ask for directions every so often. That's about what we did, and a nice man named Albert was on his way home, which was very near the base of the mountain. So after we parted ways and headed up the mountain like he said. Once out of the villages there is really only one path which is easy to follow. It clears the forest and goes up the more grassy slopes.

Kit and Mt. Hanang

So after an hour or so thunder starts clapping and dark clouds roll in. A light rain starts and we decide it is best to stop and eat and proceed up the exposed ridge when the threat of horrible death by lightning subsides. After a Cliff Bar and some trail mix the rain turns to hail. Ice falling from the sky in equatorial Africa. I was confused. Then in pain as the little balls of ice got to be more than a centimeter in diameter.

White Christmas?

So after that passed, we made our way up the ridge and started looking for a flat place to camp. Since it's a ridge there aren't a lot of flat places, but there happens to be one about a 2 hour hike from the summit. So we pitched the tent in mid afternoon and rested a bit before dinner.

Camp

Dinner consisted of large quantities of Bachelor Chow (also known as instant cus-cus and re-fried beans, courtesy of my sister). From our vantage point we could watch as the thunderstorm rolled around the area bumping up against the mountain, unable to climb it. Then as the camp fires of rural Katesh began to speckle the plains, we went off the sleep to get ready for the summit.

Rural Katesh

The ridge

After the ups and downs of the ridge line we made it to the summit. The mountain is actually a very large broken caldera, so we climbed up the edge of the caldera to the highest point on it, where we could see for miles.

I'm looking more and more like a hobo

On the walk down we watched as another thunderstorm pelted Katesh and made its way straight towards us. We managed to somehow not get rained on at all. Once back in town we had to search all over for rice and beans. Apparently since it was Christmas, everywhere there was meat and fish and other dead things, but no beans. We had to find a place run by Muslims to get some vegetarian food. The night was finished off by making and consuming brownies with Korie and crashing with her again. Merry Christmas.