...more goat please.

The pure beauty of a language barrier is the fact you can ignore anyone, anywhere and not be considered rude and ignorant. This is what every day consists of: Tanzanians talking some Swahili bullshit to you as you smile, nod your head and continue on your way.

A group of 12 Americans have arrived at Hostel Hoff. Just incase I forgot to mention what Hostel Hoff is; it is a hostel dedicated to David Hasselhoff. I wish I was kidding. In our TV room, there are pictures of him awkwardly seducing you in his Baywatch bathing suit. I think we deserve a personal visit from David himself for even putting up with this nonsense and embarrassing reputation. Personally, all I can think of while staying here is him ferociously and drunkenly eating that hamburger on the kitchen floor. I bet that would be quite the awkward dinner conversation if he ever does decide to make an appearance. Anyways, these Americans have ventured from Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. Quite the bunch, and one of the teachers in the group graduated from Syracuse so we very often reminisce over candle light and gin about Marshall Street, Carrier Dome and Chucks. Yes, candle light, due to the fact that Tanzania decided that for the next two and a half weeks electricity will be off from 6am to 11pm. Therefore, we are forced to become nocturnal creatures, set alarms for midnight and proceed with our daily routines. Yesterday it came to a point where I had to run 34 laps around the yard just so I could work up somewhat of a sweat so the cold AND dark shower was somewhat bearable. In the end: I started to lose my breath and had to get out before I even washed the shampoo out of my hair.

This past weekend about 21 of us decided to venture into a Massai village for the day. If you do not know who the Massai are, please google them. Sunday morning, we got picked up by our own personal bus and ventured into the African terrain. About an hour outside of Moshi town, we arrive to the village and were greeted by the women and children dressed in colorful fabrics jumping, cheering and singing their songs. We were greeted by the village, and because it was Sunday, were led into the Church for mass. Yes, embarrassingly, this was my first time attending church since I was baptized, maybe confirmed. Obviously the white people were on one side of the church while the village was on the other. They were more than happy to include us in on the celebration and prayers. The priest was quite the handsome one. Although he looked EXACTLY like Obama, I was kind of into him. After a LONG 3 hours of church and sitting on what they call “benches,” it was time to explore outside. However, before proceeding on with our day, we had to get in the middle of entire village and introduce ourselves.

The Massai were more than willing share their life and village with us for the day. As the women stayed behind, the men and children brought us through their village, aka the woods. It was everything that you could imagine Africa to be like: houses made out of mud, goats roaming like dogs, no water, hot, children wearing no pants and the smell of dead animals. The children in this village were like the ones you see on the donation or adoption commercials on TV. Although they are fascinated by our skin color and the ability for a digital camera to show the picture just taken, you can’t help but feel bad for them. As a Westerner, you have to keep reminding yourself that this is their lifestyle and this is what they know. I kept asking myself how do these people not get bored and go clinically insane. They have NOTHING but their tribe and the trees. The children followed us around like we were celebrities and always wanted to play with our cameras or hold our hands. 

As we made our way through the village, we got a “tour” of the mud huts, which consisted of one room, played with the local goats, which looked like my dogs, took pictures and met the locals. At one point, one of the Massai motioned me to follow him into the cornfields. Hesitant but curious, I found him personally hacking down a stock of corn for me with his machete. For the rest of the day, there I was, a little white girl, DRAGGING, not carrying, a whole stock of corn. This “present” I received represented acceptance into their village. To this day, the corn resides in my room.

As the sun got stronger so did the smell of roasting goat. The goats that I had formally held and petted, one of the poor little nuggets was now roasting in the fire for our lunch. They gathered us around the hand made fire to witness skewers of meat cooking; hoping it was cow or something edible. However, to our surprise, there was the skin of the goat peacefully resting next to the fire. Talk about fresh. We were then lead to their “dining area.” This consisted of us sitting on animal hides, passing around the plates of goat and warm coca-cola; nothing like Americanizing the local villages of Africa. Me, being the most picky, judgmental, arrogant person when it comes to eating and trying new food, I was open minded. DAD- please do not think for one second I DIDN’T smell the goat before I ate it, because I did. I'll tell you one thing, this goat needed some BBQ sauce, and A LOT of it, and maybe some salt. As I chewed the goat all I could think about were the goats I was petting just hours before lunch, its skin laying next to the fire and until I began to gag. Yes, there I was gagging in the Massai village. I’m surprised they didn’t sacrifice me in the fire for offending them. After the longest chew and swallow of my ENTIRE life, I then depended on the Pringles I had packed to hold me over.

After lunch, the local choir entertained us with some dancing, singing and chanting. Although the chanting sounded like animal mating sounds, it was quite the experience. After the celebrations, we had some time to mingle with the locals some more. Although these people stretch their earlobes and wearing pounds of beads on their bodies, they were absolutely fascinated by tattoos. Our friend has both of his arms tattooed and they would not stop touching his arms. Some of the girls were even scared to touch his arms while the men would stroke his arms and then try to scratch the ink off. The children kept swarming us and pulling on our shirts to take their pictures and show them immediately after, pointing to the screen and laughing uncontrollably at themselves. To think about it, I doubt some of these children don't even know what they look like. After a day’s worth, it was time to return to Moshi.

The rest of the week was productive. I have finally started to conduct my interviews at the clinic for my research. I have hired a local girl from Moshi to be my translator who has become my best friend. She is 21 and applying to University so is trying to make some money. Her English is great and is such a people person. I have already interviewed 15 mothers at the clinic thanks to her. It’s definitely night and day having a translator and actually understanding what is going on around you in this foreign country. She tells me that when we walk down the street, all of the locals always ask her “where did you get your mzungo?!” I take her to lunch after work and she tells me about her family, school and her boyfriend. She wants to be a lawyer, but can and will only study whatever subject the Tanzanian government chooses for her. Her parents work in the local market so she brought me to meet Mama and I got some oranges and mangos as a welcoming present.

Africa continues to amaze me everyday. Whether it is the locals, exploring town, public transportation, the way of life or their laid back lifestyle, you seem to never stop being surprised. One of my favorite things to watch are the locals selling their things on the streets. Whether it is a woman balancing 56 bananas on her head, people weighing themselves on the streets on the antique looking scales or the man who balances mirrors on his head, they seem to always have a smile on their face. What I have come to appreciate here is there happiness with life. Although these people have nothing, they make the best of what is around. They are always greeting us on the streets, wanting to ask where we are from and where we are volunteering. There was even a day a man bent down in front of me and thanked me for helping his people. If he only knew my job here is to annoy people with interviews while the mothers in the background are screaming bloody murder because they have no pain medicine for contractions and/or during delivery.

You know it’s going to be a successful day in Africa when you wake up to put a shirt on that only has 3 dirt stains, 1 food stain and 1 hole from the 12 geckos eating your clothes in your room. My Swahili is slowly improving thanks to our gardener, Richard, who teaches me at least 3 sentences a day. He will stop machete-ing the grass to ask me how my day was with the biggest smile on his face. If you could only see this man: stands about 5 feet tall with the biggest smile minus 1 front tooth. Our two guards, Ali & Seneti love to mingle with us while wearing their Massai clothes and tire sandals. Yes, actual tires cut up with straps sewn on. One of the most baffling ideas ever. Don’t think for a second I won’t be wearing a pair when I land at Logan Airport. Last night, they sat at the table with us while we tried to teach them how to play Uno. Due to the lack of communication, Ali kept throwing cards down, whenever and wherever he wanted, all while listening to Rihanna on replay from his phone.

This weekend we are venturing to Lake Chala, which lies on the border of Kenya and Tanzania; a local camping spot with swimming and, go figure, a lake. However, Anna just came across an article online about a girl’s body found with a missing arm in the lake after being eaten by crocodiles. Maybe we should reconsider our weekend plans…