Ice Cream, Church, and Taters

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The wooden doors burst open to a perfectly blue sky, gray mountains setting the stage for green pines and rolling hills. Swahili songs of praise fill my ears. No instruments, no microphones, no high tech projection screens or pews. The village had formed a circle around the church yard, singing in preparation for the produce auction that happens every Sunday after service. Beans, eggs, avocados, greens, and the like are sold to raise money for the little wooden church on the hill. I’ve only been twice, and I hardly understand most of the service, though if I actively listen I can catch the main ideas beneath the passion of the speakers. And still, lost in a foreign language and dazed by the sheer length of the service, I feel God. We all call it something different. You’ll hear me refer to it as the Universe quite often. Call it what you will, there are some environments where there is no scientific explanation for the energy that connects us all to something greater. Something that isn’t bound by the extended dry season, or the spread of deadly illness. Something that doesn’t seek, but is content. Something that recognizes and appreciates the place in every living thing where the entire universe resides.







(Namaste. You’re welcome.)







For me, this environment is in a little village in the Southern Highlands of Tanzania. I didn’t get the memo that Peace Corps Volunteers serve less than they are served. It’s true. My village keeps me alive, even after seven months in country. I’m like the town chia pet, and they’re all just praying I don’t die. Even now, the women show me how to sweep my dirt courtyard with brooms made of branches. The men show up, weeks in a row, to build shelters and fences for animals I haven’t even bought yet. The children beg to carry my water for me so I’ll give them a Starburst, and the nurses across the street show me how to wiggle my tongue back and forth while making a strange “ahlalalalalla” sound at their daughters’ First Holy Communion celebrations. They help me to get my electricity back when it’s gone out, and remind me how badly I need to water my garden. They teach me the local tribal language, and test me regularly in my tribal greetings. The sisters at the tiny, local market even added an extra egg to my basket this week… a rare, and extremely expensive gift, because they know how much I “fanya mazoezi.” (exercise)







I am spoiled by the presence of spirit in my life. Everything is rich, fulfilling, challenging, new, exciting, painful, and blissful all at once. There is so much spirit, and, ironically, so few things. Just the fact that I came to church this week made the village light up with joy that their Mzungu was doing something interesting. When I wrapped a little girl up in my shuka with me (a glorified blanket that’s acceptable to wear in public) because she was cold, I thought the village was going to throw a party.







I don’t know. I guess I tell you all the same things in most of my blogs. I just have these profound and crazy realizations that all the talk about “less is more” and “love comes first” and “happiness comes from within…” all those things are really true. In all honesty, I’m afraid to come back. Here in my little box made of mud-bricks, I’m a better me. I’m a kick-ass friend and an educated journal-writer. I give my family more love, even if from a distance, and I do real physical labor that I wouldn’t have been able to do before. I can carry a twenty liter bucket on my head and a ten liter bucket in my hand at the same time, and I can teach you how to double dig your garden for better crop yields. I can make a tree that produces four kinds of citrus, and I can swing a machete like I’m a damn warrior… even if I usually miss my target. I live with cut-up hands and shredded feet, the mamas in the village literally pulling at the dead skin and telling me that one day, my feet will be like theirs. I can also be fierce when I need to be. My friend Kim will never let me live down the story when “Little Kate suddenly became HUGE.” …She tells the story with wide eyes and a puffed out chest, mimicking the night I shoved a chair out of my way to yell Swahili in a man’s face that had barked up the wrong tree. Sometimes, I don’t know where these versions of myself come from, but I know that I don’t want to lose them.



In addition to gaining this knowledge of myself, I’ve lost things. I’ve lost control, I’ve lost ignorance, and I’ve lost ego. No, these things aren’t completely gone. I still make my lists and do my workouts, I still say stupid, privileged things, and I still ride around on my high horse (it’s a unicorn, actually). But these things have started to fade as my body changes into that of a farm worker instead of a pole dancer- toned arms and legs and a softer tummy- or my language skills have me scrambling to reprimand the kids, or I make a joke that doesn’t go over so well to my fellow classmates. There are certainly still moments where the old me shines through, but overall, I can tell I’m changing. Especially when I haven’t checked the time all day because I judge the daylight by my hunger and not my cell phone. Now THAT’S not like me.







I continue to learn things in the smallest ways. During our Early Service Training, where all the volunteers come together with their Tanzanian counterparts for two weeks, we went to an agricultural festival as a group. Not having seen ice cream in months, I was ecstatic to find someone dishing it out in little cones.



“Do you want to try?!” I asked my counterpart in Swahili. “Yes, I want to experience it!” he exclaimed.



Five minutes later, both of us eating our ice cream, I hadn’t heard a peep from him and realized he wasn’t eating half as quickly as I was.



“What do you think?!” …I couldn’t fathom that he might not like ice cream!



“It’s okay..” he said. “It’s very cold.”



…Of course, Kate. There’s that ignorance shining through. This man may have never experienced anything frozen in his entire life. Additionally, without proper dental care, eating a frozen treat would be excruciating. I should have known from his several missing teeth that this wouldn’t be an enjoyable experience for him. Contrary to American belief, Ice cream isn't for everyone. I learned a lesson in cultural competency from our frozen experience.



That same counterpart and I had tremendous luck in other areas of the agricultural festival. He was overjoyed to see a lion in real life, and has repeated stories about volunteers riding camels to all the villagers. He found it fascinating that I was less interested in the lions and camels than I was in returning to the organization that had a pile of rare, and precious American Orange Fleshed Sweet Potatoes.



After having read an article about the life-changing impacts American Sweet Taters have had on malnutrition in other African nations, I was determined to find and bring them to Njombe. Unfortunately, they are practically nonexistent. There are a couple other types of sweet potatoes that offer some nutritional benefits, but the American version is so dense in Vitamin A that its impact is imperceptible in comparison. I had asked the Peace Corps farm expert, who hadn’t found them in country yet, and I had searched the web with no luck. When I stumbled upon this organization that was trying to introduce the potato as well, I was over the moon. I interviewed the staff multiple times to be sure I was buying the exact breed. They explained to me that it would be more difficult to grow from tubers than it would be to grow from cuttings, but I knew I had no choice because the cuttings wouldn’t make it back to the village alive. So, my counterpart and I packed up a bag of those babies. I would have protected them with my life, if need be, and now they are halved and watered in mine and my counterparts’ window sills. I sing to them, love them, and pet them, begging them to grow so that we can spread their precious cuttings to the rest of the village. I was incredibly nervous to teach about the new breed of potato at my weekly agriculture class, but with a cinnamon and honey cooked demonstration, the little taters won the hearts and bellies of my ville!



To go along with the taters, we’ve decided to apply for a Feed the Future Grant, which would allow us to graft and plant about 2,000 income generating apple trees. The catch? Villagers who want to participate in the apple tree project must first plant sweet potatoes near their houses. Because the potatoes won’t generate income as well as apples, the fear was that the tater project would be de-prioritized. This way, everyone wins nutritionally and financially. Of course, the project is still theoretical at this stage, but it becomes more real every day as those little potatoes start to sprout! If all goes well, the introduction of American Orange Fleshed Sweet Potatoes and two thousand apple trees could be my main contribution here in Tanzania. If one or the other fails… well, there are plenty of other projects to pursue!



I briefly mentioned Early Service Training, so I’ll give you a little more information about that as well! We all trekked over to Morogoro for two weeks to learn agriculture, health, and cultural skills, and to follow up on medical procedure. Moro is gorgeous. When you walk along the roadside, you feel as though a raptor will run right out of the mountains and across the street in front of you. It has these mossy, green peaks and a warm, Jurassic air. Because of the presence of so many NGOs and safari-seeking tourists, there are several nice restaurants and even grocery stores that sell things like almonds and raspberries!!! Oh, how we miss those simple treats from the States. I ate delicious Palak Paneer at the Indian Restaurant, Oasis, and drank endless pitchers of Sangria on the patio at Acropol Hotel. Don’t worry, I’ve gained back the weight I lost during pre-service training.. the naan was just too good to resist.



I was also terribly excited about the prospect of finding the Khaki Campbell ducks I’ve been seeking. Alas, they did not exist in Morogoro, but there’s a good chance I’ll be having them shipped to me on a bus from.. ahem.. Kenya. Yes, I know I’m a little crazy over these ducks, but now that my village has helped me build their housing, it’s a matter of principle that I find the critters and get them to Njombe safely. Hell or High Water, I will have these damn ducks!!! The company I’ve located can send a box of ducklings on a charter bus to Kilimanjaro. Yes.. people plop their animals on human-buses and hope they arrive safely in regions far away. I would have to travel about 20 hours to get them at the bus stop, but I’ve been wanting to see that region anyways, so… maybe a Birthday Trip!? Celebration or not, I’m getting the Khaki Campbells.



Those are the major updates for now! I’m seven months in and wouldn’t even consider quitting now. It’s just getting juicy, yall! Pray for my taters, pray for my ville, and pray for humanity. We’ve all got some work to do.





With more love than you know,



Kate

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Photos

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training in Morogoro

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grafting trees!

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A pole dancer care package from my Aradia Sisters

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What's in your cart?!

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Some of my favorite care package goodies!!

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My taters!!

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making lentil burgers keeps us happy

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packing for an overnight in a country without modern medicine

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hiking through Moro with the guys!

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Morogoro