Hot Air Cold Feet

So it is officially that time again- that time where it's almost time to return home and something inside of me is stomping its foot and yelling "nnnnyyoooo!!!"

I am familiar with this inner temper tantrum, but I doubt I will ever become used to it. 

Let's be quite honest now with poor grammar: returning home means I have to rejoin the "real world". It means I have to pretend to care about things that don't matter (primarily, MONEY- but the list is long) and probably do things that I don't want to do (read: get a job). And to be frank- I DON'T WANNA. I don't want to care about who's going where and doing what, I don't want to care about what to wear and how to look, I don't want to go back to the expectations and the borderline mundane familiarity.  I don't want to care about who sees me and who doesn't. 

The thing I love about travelling is that all of the rules and expectations from home fall away, and (with the risk of sounding ridiculous) I become the master of my own destiny. I decide where I go, and when. I decide who I see. I decide what I WANT, and that's what I do. It's pressure-free and it's wonderful. I decide how hard I work, and I don't worry about whether or not I am being appropriately compensated for my efforts.

I wish more people at home could feel the true, unadulterated bliss that comes with being free from the confines of money and its cohorts. How do I put into words the way wearing the same thing everyday makes me feel more free and connected to myself than any amount of $17 per hour yoga classes ever could? How do I describe the way that watching a group of kids playing soccer without a ball makes me want to hug the world? How realizing that the cheapest way may not be the fastest or the easiest or the safest, but it's the most fun? How being alone in a foreign country makes EVERYDAY an adventure?

It's funny, because up until very recently, I was actually really looking forward to coming home. I know it's what I should do, and I know that there are a lot of people who I will be happy to see. It's just this nagging feeling that I get every time I get close to my return flight- it makes me want to throw a hissyfit.

On the bright side, I have a week in Zanzibar to act as a buffer between my departure from Mwanza and my flight home. I am pretty stoked to be perfectly alone on a tropical island.  Because if there is one thing I've learned on this trip, it's how to be alone without being lonely. 

(Oh, and Happy Canada Day to my fellow Canuks!)

Sonic Memories

As many of you know, music is my B-A-G. The Court House has always been a music box- whether it is someone singing at the top of their lungs in the shower, practicing guitar in their bedroom, playing the same Regina Spektor song over and over again on the key board in the basement, or just generally blasting tunes with all the windows open-  I'm sure every neighbour on our street has considered issuing a noise complaint at least once. We are the only family I know whose sole household rule is "no singing at the table" (things could otherwise get a little out of control).

Music is also one of my primary memory triggers. For example, anything by Kenny Loggins will instantly bring me back to sleepy midnight roadtrips to visit family in Montreal. Joshua Radin's "Closer" transports me back to the Chiapas region of Mexico in 2010. James Taylor's "Copper Line" reminds me of pretty much every cozy Sunday in B-Trae history. Ne-Yo's "Closer" reminds me of the best summer ever (2008, for those of you who were there). Ben Howard's entire Every Kingdom album takes me so close to the West Coast of Costa Rica, I can almost smell the salty water and feel the ocean breeze on my face. And John Mayer's "Walt Grace's Submarine Test, January 1967" brings me back to one of the worst days of my life. Funnily enough, so does One Direction's "Live While We're Young".

All of this is to say, some of my strongest memories (especially ones that take place overseas) are triggered through music.

Now, since my usual music dealer fell through at the last minute before my departure, I haven't had much new "western" music to listen to.  Fortunately, this has forced me to embrace the truly amazing music scene that Africa, and more specifically Tanzania, has to offer.  There is one song (which I have linked below) that I keep hearing over and over, and I can already tell that it will be the tune to forever bring me right back to the smokey, dusty and bustling streets of Mwanza.

This song is unapologetically Tanzanian. It's honestly a true snapshot of what I am seeing and hearing here every day. Hilarious, awesome, and SUPER catchy- see for yourself!



Lots of love,
Car xx

Half the Fun

[Note: This particular blog post was specifically written for the YCI blog.]

Travelling alone. As a girl. In East Africa.

If you want a genuine reaction when you are informing people about your upcoming travel plans, open with some arrangement of the above.

Shock value aside, there are considerable challenges and rewards that come with working alone as a YCI Innovator.  This is especially true when working in a city that is new to both yourself and the organization you are representing.  YCI’s programming is still relatively nascent here in Mwanza, as there has only been one YCI volunteer in the city before me. Partnerships with local organizations are still fresh and unfamiliar. My YCI Program Manager and I are still learning how to navigate Mwanza’s dala-dala interpretation of public transportation. So far, all things considered, I have encountered many challenges- from coordinating and scheduling trainings to finding someone to hang out with during my time off.  But one of the true joys of travelling and volunteering abroad is turning challenges into adventures, and adventures into rewarding experiences and memories.

This week I facilitated my first Gender Training workshop with the MYCN staff.  This training session was a general introduction to gender and gender issues, and was meant to act as a standardized foundation for all staff members, as well as an open forum for staff members to discuss their questions and hesitations with regards to gender equality in Tanzania. There is a common misconception that discussions on gender only relate to women, so one of my primary goals in the training was to clear this up and explain how incorporating gender into MYCN’s programming will benefit boys and girls, men and women.

{training}

The session was very enlightening for me, and I did my best to approach it with an open mind.  Tanzania is a much more conservative country than Canada, so I knew going into the training that cultural sensitivity would be very important.  Between preparatory research and informal discussion, I have learned a lot about the extreme challenges that gender roles and expectations pose for both men and women in Tanzania. 

At the end of the training, one of the MYCN staff members raised their hands and stated the obvious:  adjusting social norms to accommodate gender equality in Tanzania will be extremely challenging.

“Yes,” I replied, “Absolutely it will be a challenge. But that’s half the fun.”

Introduction to Tanzania

“This is a reconstruction. All of it is a reconstruction…It is impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because what you say can never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean this or that, too many shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavours, in the air or on the tongue, half-colours, too many.” 

– Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’sTale

Although the above quote references the re-telling of living in a totalitarian Christian theocracy, I find it highly relatable with regards to recounting tales of life abroad.  Whenever I travel, I always wish that the people I love could be with me simply because I know that my stories will never do the experience justice.  Furthermore, people generally add their own nuances as they listen along and consequentially the experience can come across as larger than life when really it was all just living. 

[I wish I could describe the smells- smokey, rotten and sweet. I wish I could explain the way the sun turns everything gold and the dust makes everything sepia-toned. The way the primary school children smile in their socks and wool sweaters despite the 30 degree heat. The way the banana leaves rustle in the wind and it sounds like rain.]

I’ve now been in Tanzania for a week. It’s Monday night and I am sitting at my host mama’s dining room table sipping a cup of camomile (to ease the side effects of my Malaria pills) and swatting at mosquitos with an electric tennis racquet (Roger Federer get at me).  The past week has been rather PG- nothing spectacular or life changing or monumental- but I’ve only just arrived in Mwanza and I anticipate that things will pick up soon.

The upcoming week will be filled with meetings with our local partner organizations and private Swahili lessons. The maid that works in my homestay does not speak a lick of English and thus I have major motivation to communicate properly with her as she is the one cooking my meals.  I don’t miss home yet but I definitely miss the food. A summation of my Tanzanian diet thus far: flour, salt, sugar, oil, fat.  After being bedridden for the weekend, with only Margaret Atwood and Sun Tzu to keep me company while I lay in the fetal position, today I opted for fresh squeezed papaya/banana/carrot/avocado juice (with a side of fresh veggie pizza) for lunch and more papaya and banana (with a liiiiittle piece of deep fried bread) for dinner.

I’m looking forward to discovering more of Mwanza.  I rode in a dala-dala today (a Tanzanian rite of passage) and ate at a restaurant that was set up by an NGO to employ street-youth. I saw Brad Pitt’s young Tanzanian doppelganger and read under a flowering tree. I've stood at the top of a hotel in the city center and taken in the aerial view of the lake and the hustle and bustle of the dusty streets below.  I find the local Mosque's call to prayer comforting. I realize (again...again and again) that quality of life is relative and most people have zero interest in travelling to Canada. I realize (for the first time while abroad) that home is where the heart is- so my heart will forever be stuck in suburban Ontario, much to my own chagrin. 

Merida

Tuesday was spent mainly on the bus on our way to Merida. We arrived in the "cultural center of Mexico" at around 4:30 after an 8am departure. Long day. Had chicken tacos and fresh papaya juice for dinner and then wandered around the zocalo for a bit. Also hit up the Internet and had a 15 peso mango margarita at a place called Maya Pub. In the zocalo, there were all sorts of hippies and tramps selling their art and wares. There was a girl reading poetry and a clown and a really great drum circle. I sipped a peppermint tea and looked and listened and felt so incredibly happy and comfortable and content in the most surprising way. It was that comfortably uncomfortable feeling that I had decided to search for two Octobers ago. I wanted to dance and just explode but my tea was at the perfect temperature so I stood and listened and sipped and danced on the inside. All I could think was "Life is good."

So good.

It you would like to see some snazzy pictures from Guatemala go here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/110812900673979302357/Benhameen?authkey=Gv1sRgCLrEgMSQgJmdBA&feat=directlink#

They are my friend´s pictures, he had the nicest camera. They´re really pretty (except for the ones with me) so take a look.

(His name is Ben Frisch)

It all started when Graciela´s butt was in the air and I smacked it and she said the word´pedo´along with some other words that i didn´t understand while she pointed to her butt. So naturally, i thought the word for BUTT was PEDO.

WRONGO.

So later on when we were all piling into the car, my butt got in the way of the door and I jokingly said ¨Pedo larga¨. what i MEANT to say was ¨big butt¨, but when Raquel burst into delirious laughter, i realized i must have said something stupid.

They tried to explain but it wasn´t until Angie actually made the sound with her mouth that I realized ´pedo´is the word for ´fart´. Once I realized this I legitimately burst into laughter that resulted in tears streaming down my face. What I had accidentally said was ¨long fart¨.

So, note to self: NALGA is the word for butt. Don´t get the two mixed up again PLEASE.

Although, it did make for a good laugh.