I am tired. But I have not lost hope.

Dearest followers,

My time here is swiftly drawing to a close. But three weeks from today, I will have returned (that is future perfect tense of “return”. Guess who’s writing her English examinations?) to the grand ole US of A. Though I do love my time here in Tanzania, I feel that I will be ready to go when the time comes. Last year, I felt I was scrabbling to conclude conversations, tighten friendships, and solidify projects. This year, however, I feel confident in the work I have accomplished, and I am more secure in my relationships here. In truth, I am getting quite tired.

Although there are many wonderful things about being a volunteer here in Tanzania, I would be lying to you and myself if I portrayed the volunteer experience as an idyllic, heartwarming, and protracted Kodak moment. There are stresses. And despite the fact that my working hours are shorter than what they would be in the US, and my environment is much more lax (I am my own boss, I am essentially on one long holiday... I have realized these things), there are other external factors which make this work much more involved than it at first seems.

When one begins to analyze what is really involved in being a guest, yet a family member in a completely different place and culture, it becomes apparent that much more is required of one mentally and physically than it at first seems. Let me first preface this reflective (and wholly subjective, I admit that), semi-analytic, and unnecessary panegyric by saying that these thoughts are entirely my own, and particular to my experiences, and I am in no way commenting on an entire culture or trying to disrespect the culture that I have come to love. “Woah there, slugger,” you’re thinking. “She’s gonna say some crazy s*#t now!”

Not really. I do have some radical thoughts, but I prefer to thoroughly organize them before doing something silly like splash them all over the internet (racist, sexist, and grammatically-challenged YouTubers, that was for you)...

I’m in retreat, dear readers. My mother, sister and friends can tell you its one of my less admirable characteristics. I’m tired. And when I get tired, I retreat. I hole up inside myself, inside my work. Fortunately (sort of), I’ve been enabled to order this psychic (and somewhat physical) retreat as I’ve been commissioned to take on the tedious task of typing all of the terminal examinations for Fanaka. They number at about fifty, and having me type them saves us valuable time and money. It also guarantees efficiency. But I’ve used this task as an excuse to pull away, to hunker down in my room for hours undisturbed, not having to interact with anyone. Brian Wilson couldn’t have written it better.

There’s a world where I can go and tell my secrets to, in my room.

Well, as my computer is currently within the jurisdiction of my room, I’ll let you in on my secret(s).

“But what am I hiding from?” you may ask. Don’t I love Tanzania, my family, my students? “What sort of crappy volunteer are you?” you’re thinking. “I want my money back!”

And I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so. To be sure, its possible that no one notices, for I still arrive at school punctually in the morning, I return home for lunch around 2:30 or 3, spend some time talking with Babu if he is around, and then go back to school for an hour or two to hang out with the students. I usually work for a couple hours in the evening, typing, and then come down for tea, and read or write while the family watches TV. After dinner, I bathe and bid everyone goodnight, and then work for a couple more hours before going to sleep. Sometimes I wake up early, as dawn is breaking, and get in a half hour or so of typing before dressing and preparing for the day.

So I’m not so anti-social as the word “retreat” first made me out to be. But I am withdrawing. I have begun avoiding running errands at all costs. I have begun to hate going to the road. Last year and even the first few months of my time here, it was exciting and a bit of a relief to get out, see all the people in the shops, and try my luck with my Swahili abilities. Now I mostly stick to the house and the school.

The harassment is wearing on me. To get to the road, I have to walk past the old mango tree and half-built shop where the laborers hang out, waiting for a cement truck to come by and take them to the quarry for work. They lounge there, quite convincing me that an inner-tube makes a comfortable piece of furniture, and holler as I pass. Every day. I had hoped that eventually they would get used to me, that the novelty would wear off. Except for my “boyfriend” Michael (notably, also the only other person in Bunju who is taller than me. Sometimes he walks beside me for a bit, quietly attempting to speak English. He’s very adorable and kind), they continue to hoot, whistle and shout for my attention. Sometimes I smile and greet them; lately I just try to avoid eye contact.

I’ve grown nervous around the young and middle aged me who accost me on the road, earnestly demanding that I teach them some skill- improve their English or teach them to play piano. Sometimes they talk at me for an hour, arguing without listening to the fact that I already have students, and their English is much worse than yours, so they obviously need my help more, sir. I’m sorry. I don’t have the time or inclination to help you (this was to a young man who had completed secondary school as well as Form V and VI, had extremely good English, but insisted that it was necessary I help him with his “hobby” of music), now please leave me alone. There’s the older men, who go in for the handshake and then furiously grip my hand in theirs, grasp the upper part of my arm in their other hand, and ask when they can visit me. “Uh, how about a week after never?” I think, but respect for elders is important here, and I can’t afford the safety risk of offending someone. So I smile and try to placate the man, whose proposals have now attracted a crowd of snickering shopkeepers, each second becoming more nervous about the vice-grip he has on my arm.

Eventually I extricate myself, and power off to where I need to go: the stationary, daladala or really anywhere.

There’s the children, who are less alarming but a more perfect metaphor for how I am viewed by the village people here. As I make my way along the paths and through the shops, they pop out of every possible crevice and doorway, crying, “MZUNGU! MZUNGU! MZUNGU!” Sometimes its in alarm, as they’ve been taken by surprise by my impressive stature; sometimes a herd of them will follow me, latching onto my hands and dragging adoringly alongside me. Usually they try out the rudimentary English they’ve learned in school, “Goodmorningteacherhowareyouwearefinethankyou!” they blurt out, all in one word. I correct them sometimes, “Sema good afternoon”, and they squeal and run home to tell their parents.

Sometimes I hear the cry from all the way across the road, “Mzuuuuuuuungu! Mzuuuuuungu!” and I look up, and can barely see the small child hiding in the shadows of her mother’s skirt. I wave. Nothing. But she will continue to shout.

I don’t blame them, the men or children (usually women leave me alone, or are less... blunt?). For that’s what I am to the people of Bunju, a white woman. Or worse, a white American woman. The labels cannot be extricated. They are so closely intertwined and mixed that to alter one of them would vastly change my experience here. I am, of course, grateful for being able to experience a foreign society, culture, economy and place in this manner, for it gives me a better understanding of myself, my home and the people who surround me. I’m thankful that I have the liberal arts background and an understanding of the pluralities of the vast array of intersections of race, class, sexuality, gender and dis/ability. I understand that it is my own country, self-obsessed yet guilt-ridden, that has to a certain extent created these men who hoot and whistle at me, the students whose English is limited to the words “baby”, “bi--h” and “n----r”. They want to be Western, the men from the road see me as a novelty, a zoo animal; my students see me as a ticket to what they imagine to be paradise.

I’m trying to frame these harassments and pleas for money, transport, sponsorship, marriage within a critical analysis of culture, socio-economics and global relations. But sometimes I’m just tired. I’m tired of being a novelty, and though I am a ham of the basest stripe (“What?!?” you exclaim incredulously, “Surely, you jest. Not she!”), this is not the sort of attention I’d choose. I’m beginning to understand what it might feel like to be different in the US, to be a person of color, to explore a sexuality that is not “straight”, to be disabled, Muslim, Jewish, any number of conditions that is not white, straight, male and Christian (for though we kid ourselves that all are created equal, we can all admit that the white man is still the most powerful creature on earth. This is not another feminist observation, dripping with disdain, it is a practical fact, and something we must acknowledge and work with. For a time); and also understanding even more so what it means to be white, cis-gendered and female both here and at home.

Though I balk and grit my teeth every time another motorcycle jockey cries “Hello, my girlfriend!” and jerks his head suggestively; though I wonder “Why do you bother? What are you hoping I’m going to do? Drop my bag and spring into your lap?”, I know that its no different then the men in cars who have honked their horns at me in the US; its just less apparent at home. Some of the people here have expectations about me- what music I enjoy, how much money I have, my availability for sex or marriage, simply based on the fact that I am female, white and American.

Do we not have similar prejudices regarding men and women of color? Do we not make assumptions about LGBTQQ (lesbian, gay, bi, trans, queer and questioning) people? Aren’t our expectations for men and women who are Muslim or non-Christian irrational and somewhat ignorant?

I ask these questions not to criticize my fellows, family and friends at home, nor to say that Americans are a crude bunch. Yet every society has its merits and demerits. Though I love the geography of Tanzania, am fascinated by its rich history, its vibrant cultural traditions, its foods, languages, habits, clothing, music and art, like any country and culture it has its drawbacks. I think that realizing those drawbacks has made my volunteer experience more valuable. European Americans don’t have the history of colonization that affects every aspect of life here. We have created a strong government, a powerful and pervasive entertainment culture, and hold in our hands the ability to influence many peoples and societies.

Tanzanians are still trying to find their voice. The country is young- not even 50 years old. They have managed to create a peaceful and welcoming country out of a group of about 120 completely different tribes and traditions. Each tribe had its own foods, habits, beliefs, language and systems of government. Yet somehow they have managed to surmount those differences and create a peaceful community. Though it took our own country almost 200 years to recognize and attempt to give rights to minority and special interest groups, in just a few years Tanzania had groups for women, the blind, AIDS/HIV victims, albinos, children and many others.

Tanzania is trying to stake out its place in this increasingly technological and globalized world, to flash with pride its heritage and culture, yet still stand on its own among weighty Western countries. I believe that sometimes that struggle, that difficulty of finding the balance between tradition and accepting the inevitability of the future, has its drawbacks. Tanzanians have the means to view the Western world, but only small parts of it. Africa is not a country. Tanzania is an unique country, just like the rest of African nations, and its poverty level does not mean that it has less to offer the world than any other nation. We have expectations and assumptions about Africans and Tanzanians. But they have expectations and assumptions about Americans too, and not all of them are as favorable as we’d like to believe.

My students are not just adorable faces in a brochure, they are real people to me, people who frustrate me and make me angry and who sometimes I want to throttle. They are kids. The teachers who ask me to marry them, to take them home with me and basically be their “sugar mama”, can be annoying. At times I grudgingly wish that the aid we lend to Fanaka couldn’t somehow benefit only the students, and not also the teachers by proxy, some of whom can be lazy and disrespectful. But they are people. Teachers, students, young boys by the road, roly-poly toddlers shouting “mzungu”, weary mamas with massive loads atop their heads are all people. Yes, they are poor. Yes, they are sick. However, if we see only those pitiable bits, those aspects that sell t-shirts and can be sung about by Bono or adopted by Angelina Jolie, we are not acknowledging the humanity of the people in the developing world
Real people are troubling. They are annoying. They can be rude, disrespectful and crass. And though it chafes me sometimes to admit it, it is those less sunny characteristics that make being a volunteer more rewarding and real. I have fully shed the self-indulgent pity for “Africans” and adopted a more pragmatic understanding of Tanzanians, and for that I am grateful.

I am tired. I am weary of the harassment, weighed down by my own insurmountable differences of race, gender, class, and culture. To a certain extent, I acknowledge that some of these hurdles can never be jumped. They will color every relationship I have here, and the sooner I accept that and move on, the sooner I can become a more effective volunteer and advocate.

I am tired. But I have not lost hope.