Things my Bobo has taught me

I was thinking the other night about how my biggest blog fan is my grandfather, who we lovingly call Bobo:

I began to think of ways in which I could give him a special shout-out here on my blog, and decided that the best way was to think of all of my memories of him and how they have prepared me for life in Tanzania. These are in no particular order of importance

1. A love for Johnny Cash and other country music legends: are you aware HOW much Tanzanians love country music? I’ve had this conversation with many a musician here. We think it’s because the stories are simple, understandable, and universal. But I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard “Burning Ring of Fire” on radios here and smiled, thinking of bobo.
2. The memory of Bobo telling me that I “eat like a bird”, and writing a song about it on our trip to the grand canyon: I remember us laughing a lot in Arizona on that trip after he wrote a poem off the top of his head about how his granddaughter eats like a bird. Well, I think of this often because I always get “take-away” food at restaurants here and people comment on how little I have eaten. Hmph!
3. Bobo Noting that I eat one food at a time in clock-wise order: Along the same lines… Several friends have pointed out, curiously, that I eat in clockwise order. Well, I have to give it to bobo for pointing that out first to me. I have only minor O.C.D. issues.
4. Collecting all the coins of the US for me: I had some US coins in my wallet the other day and showed them to a bunch of Tanzanian kids, telling them how there was one quarter for each state and that my bobo had collected them all for me. They seemed befuddled as to why one would simply collect money. Though, I do recall, upon receiving the collection of coins, saying to my cousins “alright guys, let’s go buy some lottery tickets!”
5. Bobo teaching me the following poem: “Spider, spider on the wall. Ain’t you got no sense at all? Don’t you know that wall’s been plastered? Get off that wall you silly…… spider.” Well, let’s just say I see a lot of spiders on walls here, and think of the poem each time.
6. Getting a commode for Christmas : first, let’s all acknowledge the importance of knowing the word ‘commode’ in general. Well, I remember bobo got this toilet and immediately dropped down to his boxers to take a picture of him test-driving the unattached toilet in the middle of the living room. YES, bobo, I do remember that. How does this apply to me? Well, it has taught me the importance of actual toilets versus the drop-holes you often find here in Tanzania. Yuk.
7. Taking a picture with a fat lady on our cruise to Alaska: bobo—the ultimate photo-bomber! I remember there was this large lady who’s big butt was facing us while we were in the Jacuzzi on the cruise. Her butt’s size was exaggerated further by the water jets propelling her bathingsuit up and out. Bobo posed in a picture with her in the background. Well, this is just a funny memory. Really doesn’t apply to my Tanzanian life at all.
8. Teaching me to play Keno (underage) on our cruise ship: learning the rules of gambling have come in handy QUITE  a number of times for me in Tanzania. Ok just kidding.
9. Giving me and my cousins $100 for emergency only: Well, this is a good place to be safe and secure financially! Last year my wallet was stolen while on a bus her in Arusha and the first thing I thought when I got home later was “PHEW! Glad I kept that $100 in another wallet tucked safely at home!” – don’t worry bobo, it’s still safe. Going on 6 years of keepin’ that baby!
10. Telling me “remember what I told you” each time I say bye: Not sure if there really is only one thing that I’m supposed to remember, but bobo says this to me every time I leave the States. I think it’s a lesson on something like “don’t be stupid; or don’t trust most people; or be careful.” Probably the latter since mom tells me the same thing each time I leave too.
11. The beauty of Flares (aka: flowers) : I mean really, guys, we all need to appreciate the beauty of the flares anywhere in the world. But they are PARTICULARLY beautiful here in Tanzania.
12. Knowing that whenever you don’t hear someone, they are certainly telling you to “do” something: I’ve learned this from bobo saying “Do what?” every time I say something to him. I’m tempted to say the same thing in Swahili each time I don’t understand what they’ve said: “fanya nini??”
13. Knowing that in Finland “they don’t even have damn snowmen”: Reference to last Christmas. One of bobo’s inexplicable outbursts. But yes, as I prepare for possible graduate school in Finland next year, I DO know it’s cold there.
14.  “A place for everything and everything in its place”: I find myself saying this mantra out loud quite often as I clean my house here. Not sure if bobo ever said it to me, but I sure picked up on it. Helps keep my home mighty nice.
15. Remembering where my home is. Remembering where I come from and who loves me most—My family. 

wow what a week

Well, can you believe I'm in my 17th month in tanzania!

and WOW that was a week.

I can already sense that I am going to have a difficult time summing up this past week. I feel as though I’ve been back in Tanzania for several months now (since returning from christmas visit in the states). What makes the transition for me? Friends-- wonderful new and wonderful old friends to help me along the way. On my first day home (arusha), my roommate Millie and I bustled on over to Makumira University, where I teach a composition course, to participate in the very exciting Glomus (Global Music) Conference. This was a huge on-taking for the university, brilliantly organized by Randy Stubbs (director of Music Department), and hosted by great conservatories in Denmark, Finland, and Sweeden. Day one in which Millie and I participated already proved to be SO much fun. I jammed and improvised with a South African Jazz group, while Millie joined the Nordic Folk Music group which was also including an Afghanistan trio of musicians. At this conference, there were about 65 students, a number of their teachers, and a few odd-ball tag-along’s like me and Millie. How many countries were there represented in this group? TWENTY THREE. It was like heaven to me: every conversation lead to some new discovery about human nature, about the world, about how connected we are, about music and its complete power to surpass the superficial boundaries of country borders or language differences. I was able to be at Glomus conference all of 3 quick times during the week, yet I feel significantly changed and very connected to the friends that I made there.

                Wednesday night was Game Time, however. Just before the winter holiday, Millie and I learned about the graduate program that facilitates Glomus. It’s called Global Music Development, shared between the partnering universities in Denmark, Sweeden, and Finland. It offers a vast array of very practical world-music courses, giving students the chance to develop their skills to working with music all over the world. It seems absolutely perfect for me and I after having been to this conference, I’m only more in want of this degree. What more, one of the main universities involved is the Sibelius Academy in Finland—a school I have dreamed of applying to for years. And even more than that, they brought admission judges to Tanzania to host grad school auditions!! So, on Wednesday night I had one of the most interesting auditions I have, and possibly ever will experience.

                Firstly, it was at 8pm on a warm evening, the trees reflecting their leaves by the clear moon. I arrived at the audition site which I promptly discovered was sitting just beside the university chapel. Why was this so obvious? Simply because the church service was BLASTING music through massive amplifiers that projected their sounds throughout all the villages around us. So, I realized what I was up against but found it to be humorous—ahh, Tanzania! The judges arrived shortly thereafter and also showed concern for the very loud music pouring in through the windows. “Is this music ok for you to play with?” one of them asked me. I responded with “well, it’s in the wrong key…” to which they all replied with resounding laughter. Phew! Off on a good foot, I thought. The blaring music was pretty funny, but I was soon in the mental zone to launch into Debussy’s Syrinx on flute.  Honestly, I apparently managed to completely block out the church music, for I don’t recall hearing it at all once I started playing. The only moment when I noticed the church music was when their song ended, timing perfectly with my very last note on flute which was very soft and delicate. I was thankful that the music had stopped just in time for them to hear my last hushed note. The judges seemed pleased and I moved over to the piano, which I quickly found to be quite out of tune. Well, I was slightly distracted by that fact and also the neighboring band started up again. I jumped into the loud and bombastic Bartok piano piece, but within a couple of seconds, found my fingers slipping. I stopped and told them I would like to start again. One of the judges said, “sure, take your time.” I think they were empathizing with me in light of the church situation. (ha-ha-ha, very funny, God) I launched into it again, however, and was off and running. It’s such a fun piece, I was surprised when it was finished and I banged out the last chord. They clapped, which was nice, and I began to explain the final piece which was a song I wrote in Swahili for the Umoja Ensemble kids in our Ndoto show last year. I felt like I sang and played well, I remembered all of the words, and they were interested to know a bit more about the show.

                Next part of the audition involved me teaching a piece to a 3-person ensemble of Sibelius Academy students. I chose a fun piece called Kuchimba Chini (Digging Down) that I composed for our Ndoto show last year as well. I explained the concepts, the form, the general idea of what to do, and demonstrated a fun sliding technique  used in the song on my own guitar. I tried to use as many teaching techniques as I could think of. I also had copies of scores for the judges so they could follow along, thus showing off my Type-A personality strengths….haha! The piece came together quickly, with what awesome musicians I had playing it and all, and I noticed one of the judges tapping his foot along. After that, I had to improvise and “contribute musically” to a song the same three Sib. Acad. students played. That was also just a bunch of fun, like a jam session. Finally, I had my interview where I was asked such questions as “where do you see yourself in 10 years? What do you have to offer the Sibelius academy? Why do you want to go be in Glomas?” and my personal favorite: “If you have to pay, will it change your mind?” – for the Sibelius Academy is free for all students, but the other two partner academies in Denmark and Sweeden are NOT free for US citizens. Well, I told them that if I was supposed to be at one of the other institutions, I would figure out a way to finance it, but right now my goal is to be completely focused on getting into the Sibelius Academy.

                I spent another hour waiting outside with the Sibelius academy musicians and 2 other auditioning students. It was during this time that I gained the best picture I yet have on what I could expect if I were to go to Finland. To me, everything sounds amazing: wonderfully interesting students and faculty, a very unique perspective on combining cultures through music, a once-in-a-life opportunity to be at one of the world’s best conservatories. Not to mention, all of the students I have met seemed so genuinely kind and excited about sharing different kinds of music.

                In summary, the week visiting this conference was so incredibly vibrant, inspiring, and encouraging. It has already affected what music I’m teaching my piano group classes. I decided to introduce them to music from around the world—starting with, of course, Brazilian Samba J

                In the meantime, I will be waiting to hear back from Sibelius Academy in JUNE about my acceptance. Cross your fingers, everyone!

Guilt

Guilt

I always have a bit of difficulty transitioning back to my home here in Arusha. I’m not alone in this, I know, for I have heard some of my friends say the same. Once you’re here for a while, you forget what it feels like to be home and you transition back to a Tanzanian-Mzungu-normal. By far, this time back has certainly been the easiest transition for me. When I initially moved to Arusha, the first three days were actually nauseatingly stressful for me and the nights were sleeplessly torturous. The second time I went home and came back, I had a breakdown suddenly while doing crunches on the floor of my room. Weird, right? I was so upset that I had an iphone and as I laid there on the ground, I promised myself I sell the iphone and give the money away. (this iphone was later stolen, so the universe works it all out…) The third time I went home and came back, there was no emotional breakdown but I did find myself going out and drinking a lot more than normal with old friends for the first week I was back. This is my fourth and final time (at least for now) that I have gone home and will come back. No tears, no desire to binge on chocolate or drinks, but there’s just this guilt.

The first kind of guilt comes from reevaluating what I want in life. When one comes to an African country as a 20-something year old, you feel this sense of pride, of calling, of duty to help fix this place. Of course, this is fueled by every one’s oo-ing and ahh-ing when you tell them you’re going to Tanzania for two years. You land here knowing that you’re going to CHANGE THE WORLD! For some time, I’ve gabbed on about living here, or in Haiti, or in some hot and dirty place. But, at some point since I’ve been here, I’ve come to accept that this may not be the path for me. I do love this place, and I do love its challenges, but I struggle emotionally even still with being away from the comforts of home. I start to doubt my original noble goals, realize my human weaknesses, and the guilt sinks in for not being stronger.

The second feeling of contrition comes from that which I cannot control—my place of birth. At some point, I started to wonder why I should have the luck to be born in America and have all of the opportunities that I do, while the majority of Tanzanians never have the hopes to leave East Africa, or even the country. Why, I could go and find an apartment in downtown Atlanta, search for a job, and live in complete comfort (and probably boredom, I might add). Ok, but I have the choice. But, I’m not sure if I could compete in the job market in America these days, being a musician and all. Isn’t it better to be a prized musician in a small city than another classically trained musician in a metropolis? I’m not quite sure which is scarier to me, really.

I have an audition for graduate school tomorrow, here in Arusha. I’m hoping it will take me to Finland to get my masters next year. But, I’m nervous about the audition, and I’m sad to be missing people from home, and then there’s this guilt on top of it all. Oh, I forgot the third kind of guilt—why do I feel so sorry for myself when I have SO much? Friends, family, very comfortable living, good clothes, money to go see movies and eat out at restaurants, an awesome job, people who I love and who love me, musical skill, an exciting and beautiful place to live. Seriously, sometimes I wish someone would just come splash cold water in my face and say, “dani! Wake up!” 

A New Normal

A week ago, I was walking along the road on my way back from Saturday work at the church and I suddenly stopped. In front of me there stood a normal-size house with a small square green front lawn. It completely baffled me, and then I felt more confused wondering why it had. I’m sure it seemed strange that a lone mzungu was just standing in the middle of the street staring at a random house, but I lingered to inspect the scene more. I looked around and noticed that there was freshly turned dirt along the border of the lawn and on the side rested old metal and bricks- the remnants of their wall of fencing. It slowly came into clearer focus why this was all so interesting: the house looked like any house on any street back home in the US. Just there, unprotected by any wall or fence. I could actually see its green lawn and small shrub of pink flowers, which was what had confused me first. A green lawn instead of dirt or cement or mud. But I have a green lawn in my little plot around my house, so why was this different? Because I could see it. Every house here sits behind tall walls of security and secrecy. Either that or it will be a house made of mud, cardboard, or dung. A house with cement floors, however, well that’s worth protecting from peeping and hungry eyes. This house had nothing to hide behind while they were repairing its walls. “Imagine that,” I thought, “A house with a little lawn just sitting for everyone to see…. Just like at home.”

A week ago, the rains really started. I’ve been training to run a 5k, however, so as I stared out the windows of my warm cozy music room I considered the pros and cons of running in the heavy rain that afternoon.  “Common, just do it!” my audacious piano student urged me, knowing I had been training and knowing what was going through my mind at that moment. So, after her lesson I tied up my shoes and splashed into the wet grass and mud. By my fifth lap around the track I was feeling thirsty, so I randomly opened my mouth to the heavens to get a taste of rain. But suddenly I stopped myself, and then I had to stop and wonder why I stopped myself. Well, the water here is often not safe for me to drink- the water from the river, the water from the tap, the water from the shower. I remember back home in the US sometimes I would drink the water falling down from above in the shower. Maybe this is odd, I have no idea, as I’ve never really discussed it with any one. But at least you know that if you accidentally get some water in your mouth it’s not a big deal. But here, when in the shower, I keep my mouth closed tight because I don’t want to end up not feeling well from the water. So as I stood in my grey, damp clothes in the rain, I thought what a sad thing it is that my instinct is to assume the fresh rain toxic. And then I thought… isn’t this something? This clean water leaves its burdened cloud, plummets for miles in the sky clean and pure, and the moment it hits the earth here, it becomes septic. But, as I opened my mouth once again and felt the rain on my face, I decided I would at least get to save a few of these clean drops.

If you haven’t seen this awesome video from the fabulous Bienmoyo Foundation and the song that I wrote for them, please check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xIfIDs8E6ZY

In other news, I go home for Christmas on Wednesday and I couldn’t be more excited.

A little Americana?

Nov 7th, 2012

At our Obama Inauguration Party (~ 4:30am)

               Today felt different. Today, I looked in the mirror at myself differently, held my gait differently, categorized myself differently, and for the first time since I’ve come to Tanzania, I mentally excluded myself apart from everyone else on the street. Today, I didn’t try to wear a long dress that covered my knees in the heat of a blazing sun; and when I passed through the raucous marketplace and dove into the smokey pool of daladalas, I did not try to hide myself in the crowd. I didn’t try to conceal any smug smile that might cross my face, and I didn’t ignore the obvious staring of the man sitting next to me on the bus, but instead confronted him on it. For just one day, I resumed a part of my old identity that I haven’t felt in a long while, because today in my mind, I was an American.

                Around 3:30am this morning, seven friends and I awoke to head to a sportsbar where we had requested a special screening of CNN election coverage, breakfast, and champagne. At 4am, a couple of us walked into the bar and my face lit up as I heard the first sounds of Anderson Cooper’s voice. The pumping, energetic music being unsubtly featured on top of Wolf Blitzer’s frenzied voice was refreshingly exciting, thrillingly fast-paced, and gave the same sense of anticipation as one walking into a huge cheering stadium just before a football game. From 4-7am, the group of us proudly obnoxious Americans cheered and booed as states were declared, played a game of pool, shared our political knowledge and opinions, and enjoyed spontaneous cups of beer far too early (or too late?) for common sense. When we left the sports bar in the bright morning sun, I felt a sense that I had been there for hours and hours, maybe days. And why was I suddenly at a sportsbar in day light?!

                So, when I went home, took a shower, and then a 2 hr nap, it was time to do the daily rigmarole of figuring out an outfit appropriate for the streets and for the weather and for teaching. I have these cache long shorts that don’t quite cover my knees, and usually they’re a bit too risqué for the dala ride. So, I instead put on a pair of long trousers, stepped outside and set, “ah screw it!” – yes, today, for some odd reason, I stopped caring if I was starred at or if I stood out! It was my election day and the man that I voted for twice had just won the election. It was my turn to be proud. I know it seems ridiculous, ok my form of protest was shorts riding just barely above my knees, but it is the principal—it was the mentality that I wore on my sleeve. (or pants leg, for that matter)

                I took out some chewing gum and smacked it loudly (sorry, mom), blowing bubbles as I walked in the street. Oh man, I even wore my sunglasses!! I never do this… I’m not sure why, I think because it’s just one more item that most Tanzanians (especially women) are never found to be wearing. But, well the sun was shining and there were my sunglasses in my pocket. So imagine a hipster Dani, smugly strollin’ through the daladala stand with her hands in her pockets and blowin’ bubbles with her gum. Well, that was the scene and it was glorious because I didn’t care one bit!

                We Americans are such a strange breed of people. We’re such an amalgam of so many cultures, we just don’t realize it! And, in only 200 years, we have grown into a nation of proud and passionate people that stick out everywhere we go. Last night, Millie (my English roommate) sighed, “I just don’t see how you can get so excited about an election!” and I smiled. When did I become so passionate about my country? Well, once I realized how ridiculously incredible of a country it is, I suppose.

Last night Obama said a couple of things in his victory speech which I really liked. The first was “We believe in a generous America, a compassionate America, in a tolerant America…” My gosh, how truly that resonates in me. It’s the tolerance of difference, of uniqueness, that I miss so much here in Tanzania. Obama said, “What makes America exceptional is the bond that holds together the most diverse nation on Earth.” Even now, I nod my head in agreement, and with pride. So that’s why I wanted to stand out today: well, it may sound cheesy, but I really believe that it was because I wanted to remember that I come from a place where difference is celebrated, where being weird isn't all that weird at all. 

thinking, not writing

I realized today why I haven't been blogging much this year at all. For one, I've forgotten that my life here is not the typical life for everyone everywhere and that it might be of interest to anyone back home. Secondly, I’m busy and my internet is pretty much crap all the time now. Third, because I just haven't felt like sharing much lately- not quite sure why. But, I've been thinking a lot. All the time I'm thinking, evaluating, trying to deduce equations in my mind. For example, why the prospect of doing 2 small tasks becomes doing 5 bigger tasks here. 1 + 1 = 5 (TIA)**

**TIA, for those who don't know, is an acronym many people use here. This Is Africa. I suppose it's not very nice, but sometimes you just need a mantra like that to get through doing something that shouldn't be as difficult or slow as it is. So, this is a new year, and perhaps you're wondering, what does dani do most of the time? Here's a typical day for me:

Wake up at either 6am to go for a jog around a large, dusty outdoor basketball court and football field (soccer) or at 8am to have a leisurely breakfast. My roommate teaches much earlier than I do so she's usually gone when I wake up (unless I run), and home when I return at the end of the day. I then walk up and wait the dala dala (van/bus) from the top of my road, trying to ignore the taxi drivers who are also parked there waiting for customers. They usually accost me in some way, though I think they've gotten used to me. As I leave my house to walk up that hill, I often greet one of three people: either Daniel, the guy who works at the little general-goods stand across from my house, Irene, a little girl who lives in my neighborhood who speaks great English and is somehow always around when I walk in my neighborhood, or the pikipiki guys (motorcycle taxi drivers) who call me "Mayai"-- see previous blog entry for this explanation. Once I've crammed into a dala dala, we ride just a few blocks to get to the main dala dala stand. I do the same thing each time I get out of that first daladala to transfer to the next: I wipe any smile off my face (gotta look tough, you know!), throw my backpack over one shoulder and then the next, and look straight ahead, no eye contact- looking like I know exactly where I'm going (toward the other line of daladalas), but actually just hoping that I hear the word "kisongo, kisongo"-- kisongo is where I'm going and you find the bus that you want by listening for the name of the final destination  of the daladala. When I hear the sharp "sss" shouted from the word "kisongo" I feel a sense of relief, knowing that I don't have to make myself slightly more vulnerable by asking "wapi kisongo?" (where’s the kisongo bus). In that bus stand, I try to avoid talking at all costs, so as to draw less attention to myself. This is, I know, all in vain. For I am mzungu and all eyes are on me.

But, I've arrived in the 2nd daladala and now I have my choice of nice seats next to the window. We want this window seat because when you get 20 people inside that van, it's hot. But, there's another risk in grabbing the window seat. You have to be ready to close the sliding plastic window at any moment, because if an obnoxious person notices you're mzungu in the daladala, they'll probably b-line it over to the window and try to strike up some asinine conversation just to flirt with you or get you to buy some candy or chips that they’re selling. Ok, so now the dala dala is fairly full and the driver starts honking his horn to let the conductor (guy who’s shouting ‘kisongo’, and whose job it is to gather customers on the bus, know that it’s time to get moving. BANG BANG BANG, the conductor almost always hits his fist into side of the daladala telling the driver, “just wait, some more customers are coming.” It seems always to be a bit of a power struggle between these two men. The driver wants to go, the conductor wants to wait for more customers. Eventually, almost always, the driver gets fed up and starts rolling, without the conductor in the bus. But, miraculously, even when the bus is really moving at a good speed, the conductor runs, catches up with the bus, and hops in the wide-open door. Once inside, he closes the door and sticks his head out the window to continue shouting “kisongo!”  I’m always slightly concerned for the conductors because they really do have to run between other moving vehicles or people to jump into the bus. I’ve never seen anyone not make it into the bus or trip, but once I did almost see a conductor get squished between another parked daladala. Phew. That made every one laugh at the time.

Now’s the easy part, just sit back, stay quiet, take your money out of your pocket and wait about 20 minutes through traffic and picking up other customers until you’ve gotten out of the city and then we’re really rolling. My work is a bit of ways out of town but once you leave the disgustingly polluted streets of Arusha-proper, you become immediately surrounded by lush green coffee fields interspersed with tall trees and white flowers. You fly through this coffee forest and suddenly emerge out of it to find yourself surrounded by wide open, and often dusty, fields. On my right, they stretch far until they hit the foothills of Mt. Meru and then, there’s the mountain herself. It’s a beautiful view. This morning, I watched several hawks soaring high, searching for prey, there in front of the mountain. The rains are coming, too (It’s about time, my gosh it’s so dusty here) and the mountain has some snow on her top from the rain that’s falling so high there. There are big grey clouds there in the distance, as well.

As we turn a corner, I see the peaks of some of the classroom buildings from my school and I (even still!) get a small pang of nervousness because I’m about to have to speak and reveal my american-accented swahili to everyone on the bus, many of whom will inevitably look at me. I usually practice saying the word “international” (which stands for international school where I work) in a Swahili accent a few times under my breath before it’s actually time to say the word. Once I’ve said it, I pay my 400 shillings (about 25 US cents) and wait for the bus to stop shortly thereafter. I hop out of the bus which always stops right on this steep little hill, and I have to be careful not to slide down the hill. I cross the street and start to smile at the school’s gate guards, Simon and Neema who are always all-smiles and ready to greet me.

Our greetings go as follows (translation from Swahili)
Hey!  - Hey!
How’s the morning?  - Really good!
How’s your morning? – Really good too!
How’s work? – Great
How’s your family? – great!
How was your weekend? – really nice
Have a good day!
Have a good work!

It’s basically always something like 5 questions that you already know the answer to: great! You can’t be like, “ah man, my day really sucks.” That would cause serious alarm.

Then my work day begins. I start teaching at 12, but I often arrive early to practice or do things like write a rambling blog, as I am doing this morning. I teach 30 minute or hour long lessons in piano, flute, and voice, and then some group classes are interspersed in all of those. At the end of the day, around 6, I walk out and await my taxi driver and dear friend, Jimmy. I choose to take the taxi at the end of the day because, as my roommate and I found out last year, the daladalas are bonkers at evening rush-hour.

If I don’t go out to dinner or to a friend’s house for dinner, I’ll arrive home, first to greet our night Eskari. Eskari means “guard” and our guard’s name is Joeseph. He’s a very friendly older guy who opens  the gate for me, wrapped in enough winter clothes to face a blizzard- even though it’s maybe 60 degrees outside that night. Well, he has to sleep outside and stay awake all night (though we of course all know that most eskaris sleep), his only companionship being a crappy radio. I think I would actually go insane if I ever had the prospect of doing this every night for the rest of my life.  After some cheerful greetings with him and some jokes (he usually asks “where’s my soda”? because I sometimes buy him a coke or something) and our laughter, I continue to the house. This is often to find a very happy Millie who’s cooking or watching a movie in our warm and cozy home. I’m always happy to come home. Nights include practicing music, laughing with Millie, talking to Mom, Dad, or Rafael on the phone, reading, and eating good food.

I’m sorry, it’s all that I have to write today. Just the logistics of what I do each day. Life is good, I feel very very very blessed each day. But, not particularly inspired to write philosophical blogs. You guys will all forgive me, yes?

Sorry guys

I.        Have. Not. Written. In. a. very.

Long…

Time.

Why is that? Well, because life is moving so fast and I’m amazed each day as I’m lying in bed and  recognize that yet another day has come and passed. Of course I feel like I’ve been back in Tanzania for several months, and yet it’s only been about a month and a half. What has happened? I’ve gotten back into teaching all my private lessons and group classes at our Umoja ensemble schools, I’ve organized a successful fundraiser for Meru Animal Welfare Organization, I’ve made some new friends, I’ve gotten much closer to old friends here, we’ve had our first student recital of the year, I’ve thought about a lot of people in the US and Brazil and everywhere else in the world that I miss a lot, I’ve composed the music for my collaborative project in Tunisia with Colette, I’ve been shopping to buy a car, I’m organizing a recording session for our Umoja Ensemble kids to record a song I wrote for a heart disease foundation here, and tonight… I partook in a barn dance.

Yes, my roommate Millie helped plan a barn dance/hoe down at her church and tonight it happened. Oh my gosh, I don’t know when I have laughed and had so much fun here in Arusha! The pictures show it all- basically, there was a band of musician friends playing and one who called out the moves of what to do “swing your partner, line moves in, ladies to the center, men to the center, strip the willow!” haha oh man it was a great deal of fun.

Roomate, Millie

We were a foster-home for a wonderful little puppy for a week!

the hoe-down!

All of us very tired after the dancing!

Life is moving fast. But there are cycles in life- sometimes I feel very inspired to compose and to write blogs and journals, and other times it’s as if life itself were demanding all of my time and energy- no time to reflect, no time to sit and ponder the meaning of everything. But that time will come again. I leave in NINE days for Tunisia and Morocco and I couldn’t be more excited. I have no doubt that as I stare over the sands of the Sahara Desert some sense of inspiration will hit me. I’m going first to Tunisia where I will hear the premier of a piece I composed with Colette. Very honored and excited to have the chance to work with her again- also to hear how this music sounds, as it was all inspired by ‘arabian’ sounding music… well, I don’t  have the energy to discuss all of the kinds of music I had to take into consideration for this ‘middle-eastern’ musical drama that Colette and I created.

I’m feeling more comfortable in Tanzania than ever. It really takes a year to feel at home in a place and it’s certainly what I feel here now. Today and yesterday I snapped at some of the drivers of the dala dalas I was on. Yesterday it was because they were talking about me ‘mzungu’ (white person)  and making kissy noises at me and laughing. I shouted, “ndiyo, cheka, cheka!” which is like, “yeah go ahead- laugh! Laugh!” and they usually shut up a bit when they realize I know some Swahili. Today there was a homeless man who came across the street to either ask the dala dala for some money or try to get a ride in it. The driver said, “toka!” which is basically like “shoo!” and the command of ‘go’ people say to dogs. I couldn’t help myself,  I told the driver in Swahili “you know, he is not a dog! Why don’t you say ‘pole’, not ‘toka’!” We had a bit of an argument, of which I stood very little as the driver spoke back in fast Swahili. But, maybe he got my point. All that to say that I’m feeling comfortable;  I’m feeling it is my community here. I’m feeling more of an outsider and insider all at once as I learn the kinds of people I can and cannot trust all because of the color of my skin. It is a true coming of age- losing some of that idealism and starry-eyed naiveté one often has as a young 20-something year old first going to live in Africa.