A Taste of One's Own

Mistakes into meals

2009-11-03T19:01:00.002-06:00

I've always loved projects. As a child I enjoyed art projects like making paper, pottery, collages, mobiles or even painting cigar boxes. For a period of time I think I even considered becoming an "artist" when I grew up. One day in fifth-grade art class, my teacher said something I will never forget: "a real artist is someone who can make a mistake and still turn it into artwork." At which point, I believe she showed a Matisse or Picasso with their exuberant lines that often held ambiguous meaning. Proving to us, that when Picasso had made that seemingly misfit stroke, he was still capable of turning it into a work of art. For years, when I attempted artwork of any sort this phrase had haunted me. I tried not to erase or regret the mistake I had made, but adding to it often seemed to make it worse, leaving me defeated. So I put artwork in that category of my mind as something I would never be good at. Until one night. I was in college, living with an artist, who's work greatly inspired me. Her positive feedback and encouragement of my work was motivating me to try my hand with the brush, once again. The night is vivid. Several other artists were over at our apartment, we all had a canvas and several bottles of wine circulated the room, as did conversation and music. I had made a piece that for me, represented love. It started with an intense and pure red, slowly and perfectly fading into more soothing and comfortable shades like yellows and oranges. It was a piece I was making for my boyfriend of the time, an architecture student living in Florence. Toward the end of the night (I'll blame it one the wine), I chose to incorporate a hint of gold throughout the painting. However, that "hint" ended up being a blob of splattered gold paint oddly positioned on the rectangular canvas. I panicked at first, instantly thinking of my art teacher's words, which led me to toy with the idea of spreading it in. Instead I took a step back, looked at it and after seconded approval by my artist friends, I decided I liked it like that. A mistake that ultimately provided my unrealistic expectations of the perfect painting with a splash of something different. Much like love, there are goals for perfection, but if you've ever loved or been loved you know that perfection is not a fitting word for romance. So I left the gold splatter. Unique in its form, it is an aesthetic example of making a mistake while maintaining the creation of art. When I gave the painting to my boyfriend, he thought I had added it on purpose.

Now in life, I often find this phrase popping into my mind while I'm in the kitchen. On a journalist budget and living by myself, my fridge isn't always stocked. So on this day, after a seventeen hour deadline, I'm tired and hungry. I have some potatoes that are starting to smell and some zucchini that's verging on slimy. I need to cook these perishables. I chopped the potatoes into pieces adding roughly chopped garlic cloves, tossing them in olive oil, salt and pepper, roasting them for over thirty minutes. A little too long, in a pan not meant for roasting, the bottom potatoes crusted to the pan and that crisp shell that protects the tender potato when roasted was burst when i tried to scrape them from the bottom. luckily i'm cooking for myself, because this wasn't how I had planned. A glance at my nearly empty fridge, and I added a spoonful of pesto, splash of milk and some leftover brie a friend had brought over the other night. Mashing it all together, I had a surprisingly good dish. Serving it as a side with my sauteed zucchini, baked mahi mahi filet and mushroom risotto. It's not a piece of artwork, merely a simple meal taking me very little work and not much time, yet very satisfying. It's something I think about often. A recipe with the best ingredients can be easy for some. Not to be presumptuous, but is the sign of a good cook one who can turn mistakes into meals? I think about it often on my limited budget. After all, some say that chefs are artists, which would entail that cooking is just another form of art.

Meredith had a little lamb, it’s fleece was white as sand, and everywhere that Mere went, her lamb was sure to go…

2008-08-04T20:32:00.002-05:00

Cruising “the Beast” from a ranch in Texas, to another ranch in Texas, towards the East Coast, dipping low into the Southern tip of Florida, where it resided in a dysfunctional relationship-- where a healthy appetite does not thrive-- and finally make a pit stop on the West coast of Florida, in Marco Island, where it was successfully roasted and then finished its’ journey back to good ole’ Fort Lauderdale. “The Beast,” as my formerly-vegetarian sister lovingly calls it, is the grass-fed all natural lamb shoulder that my father cautiously wrapped up in ice before sending me and the unassuming lamb into “the Real World,” on a two day road-trip, turning the pages of life towards a new chapter.

Eventually becoming more of a burden than pleasure, the frozen ‘beast’ and I fought tooth and nail, effectively leaving a two-year relationship, that ended with a sweaty mess of closet organizers in the lobby of the posh condo my former boyfriend and I had been living in. And as my belongings slid humiliatingly across the marble floors, the only thing that had remained in my arms was, “the Beast.” So she and I gathered the ice packs, left the crap I didn’t need, and peeled out in my Passat. Only to realize that the “charming little studio,” I had just moved to, did not have a freezer big enough for my little lamb.

Embarking on all new adventures: new job, new car, new friends, a new studio for us to live in; an altogether new life. It was me and my cooler of lamb, and yes, we are living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida—Spring Break central.

The only caveat was not only did my “charming little studio” not have a freezer or fridge large enough for ‘the Beast,’ but it also didn’t have an oven large enough to cook it in—nor had my gas been turned on yet. So night after night, I rubbed the beast down with some spices and olive oil. Never really sure if it was ever going to get cooked, but after several nights of the ‘Kobe beef rubbing’—I like to call it—the lamb and I were packed, once again, on a roadtrip, this time to a little island in the Gulf to visit my niece.

Three or so hours intot he roasting process, which was appropriately taking place in a sea-foam green and pink ‘80s’ decorated apartment, I had my niece turn the oven off, as the adults were out at the bar. Only to stumble home to a perfectly tender, juicy slab of meat, waiting to be accompanied.

After the weekend had passed, I took my half of ‘the Beast’ back to my side f the state, and after a day of deadlines—the paper was released to the press, and I returned to that ‘charming little studio’ and yet once again—it was me and ‘the Beast.’ Accompanied by microwavable ‘dirty rice,’ I devoured juicy chunks of lamb as the fat comforted my frail body and the flavors soothed my loud mouth, and the lamb fell apart, delicately swimming in a bowl of rice. The mellow taste and smooth texture softened the spicy rice, and with a beer, it all went down smoothly.

Now, while writing about my new friend, ‘the beast,’ I am finding a close similarity to a bedtime story I read to my youngest niece this weekend. Reading Shel Silverstein’s words, I notice my supply of lamb slowly diminishing in the fridge, but like “The Giving Tree,” the lamb’s spirit is sure to live on.

If you are what you eat: Then I’m a Daddy’s girl.

2008-06-15T21:19:00.004-05:00

“More. More. More!” Were the first words that spat out of my mouth in between slobbery bites of corn on the cob. I was a toddler, in the process of teething, nonetheless still using my first front tooth to break into the buttery kernels of Wisconsin corn.

Ten years later, my father and I went head to head in a corn eating competition. The lack of teeth as a toddler never held me back, and neither did my braces as I finished thirty-three ears of corn—to beat my father’s thirty-two. Ranking as the youngest corn eating champion (of the family).

No one can deny my love of food. Despite my high metabolism and tendency to eat healthy foods, I will eat ANYTHING. Probably because, as I child—I had no choice.

I remember being in fifth grade, and my father was going through a phase of cooking spicy Mexican rice dishes. They were probably incredible; some with sausage, others with chicken, all I really remember though was my anxiety. I did not like my father’s cooking at the time, and stopped eating the large portions that I typically eat. What bothered me most was my worry that perhaps, I may be a “picky eater!” I pulled my Mother aside one evening, confiding in her my worries, and she assured me that it was just a phase that I was going through. And indeed it was, as I resumed my normal eating habits within the year when we moved to Texas, where BBQ became my staple.

The reason I was so concerned about my possible “picky” propensity, was because my father had instilled in me a love of food. Not just for the food itself, but for the process, whether it be cooking in the kitchen with my Dad, or going to the fish market to pick out dinner, as he would shove slabs of raw fish in my face forcing me to learn what fresh fish should smell like. Never have I flinched at my father’s appreciation of food. Instead I have stood by his side, in admiration and awe, as I learned bits and pieces about cooking along the way. He and I once made a Turducken—from scratch. My bony arms shaking to pull the tweed rope through the flesh of a turkey to sew up a turkey stuffed with a chicken and a duck. That was the last year we ever made our own, nonetheless the memories will always be with me.

After moving to Texas, we advanced from our eighties minivan, and bought a real pick-up truck. We were officially Texans. Despite my Father’s busy schedule at the Chicago Board of Trade, he still made every weekend an adventure. Once, my mother was visiting her family in East Texas, so he loaded my sister and I into the truck, and drove us across the state to meet her. Along the way, he stopped at EVERY farm stand that sold melons. I sat in the backseat with a Swiss Army knife, newspaper piled on the leather, and every kind of melon you could ever imagine, slicing up hunks for us to try. The melon was still warm from sitting in the warm Texas sun, which also produced a strong aroma in the pick-up truck, covering us in seeds as my sticky fingers were getting tangled in my hair.

Not only has my Father provided me with endless memories of food exploration, he has also been my guiding light. In the kitchen and in life, whether it is a recipe for veal piccata or relationship advice, he has always selflessly offered any and all of his resources to those around him.

And with some short memories of my Dad’s adventures with food and in life, I would like to thank all fathers'. Thank you for the inspiration in the kitchen, thank you for instilling high morale, and thank you for motivation, the motivation that makes one achieve ones goals on a daily basis.

In honor of my father, I spent the day eating, cooking, and filling my “memory book,” as these are some of the greatest moments we spend together. In parting, I will leave with one more memory. One that provided me with great joy and hope-- even to this day.

Waking at dawn when I was seven years old, my father hustled me out of the house. He had me help arrange a bag of goodies, and as we quietly left the family sleeping, we jogged all the way to the middle of the Northwestern campus (maybe I was being pushed in the jogging stroller- can’t remember). I trailed behind my father up a temporary hill of scraps that had grown over with itchy weeds. He sat me down, passing me a Ziploc bag leaking of orange juice, another of milk, and some cheerios that made up our breakfast. And as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that morning, I remember being filled with the simple kind of happiness that you can only have as a child, and with respect for my father, who was surprising me every day with seemingly innovative ideas about how to live ones life. I learned by example, and continue to learn everyday from him. As a Boston Marathon runner, David Clements has achieved a great number of accomplishments in his life, yet it is the memories of crawling up “Weed Mountain” for a picnic, that continue to teach me life’s greatest lessons.

While it took me four years of studying philosophy to clarify my thoughts on life, it took us a morning jog and a sunrise to discover life’s greatest goods: happiness and love. Thank you Dad for teaching me.

Messy Mussel Sunday

2008-05-18T21:32:00.002-05:00

Sitting at our high-top dinner table, with wine coated fingers flinging potent drops of mussel juice about the table; he said, “We love making a mess, don’t we!?” And for once, my not-so-articulate boyfriend had said the words to properly sum up our cooking adventures.

Yet another Sunday evening food adventure, resulting in kitchen catastrophe. Two pounds of mussels and half a pound of grouper in the fridge, and with an interview looming on my mind, I was looking for anything to distract me. Thus, what led me to a number of websites searching for an authentic moules Mariniere recipe.

Never having been able to successfully make mussels and pomme frites that tasted anything close to the paper baskets that filled my hands while in France, I attempted another try. I’m embarrassed at how surprisingly easy it is to achieve the true flavors. The secret and key ingredient to this recipe, which is considered to be a blue-collared dish in France, is shallots. We had a few rotting in the back of the fridge, a quick clean-up adding two garlic cloves and a chop through the Cuisinart, the mixture was added to melting butter that soon turned in to a fragrantly steaming pot of heaven. I knew that I had done something right, continuing with the addition of about half a bottle of wine, bringing to a boil, tossing in the mussels, another splash of wine on top and closing my pot of cold mussels. Meanwhile mixing my garlic and butter in the Cuisinart for yet another loaf of garlic bread, this one a bit more traditional and simple than last weeks, and keeping my fingers crossed that the ingredients were welding together in a fury of white wine steam. Keeping my paws busy elsewhere- I turned around to the most delightful surprise on my stove! I didn’t think that such simple steps could yield such beauty, however when I saw the shells opened wide, exposing the delicately swollen and plump mussels, I knew that finally, I had done something right. Mentioning this because the fear of failure that evidently looms in the atmosphere of a testing kitchen, when other options for dinner are not readily available- rather unexplainable to an unhappy boyfriend—is a consequence that I sometimes face. But, with my fathers words in mind, “you can’t go wrong with butter and garlic,” I continued in confidence.

Using a slotted spoon to drain the mussels out of the pot, keeping the heat on, in order to plop two nice pieces of grouper in the mussel broth. These too, were steamed and puckered up when ready to be eaten. Placing the fish on top of the bowl of mussels, pouring the entire pan of wine broth, steaming that heavenly scent, signaling that dinner was served. By now, my garlic bread was just about to burn- I always seem to catch it close! Tearing the hot loaf into three hunks and inserting them around the edges of the bowl, their tips sitting in the broth, soaking up the juices. Now, had I had the ingredient, adding handfuls of freshly chopped Italian flat parsley along the way, had made for not only a colorful splash, but also a tasty addition. Having lacked that, I have to say that it was just fine without.

Ten steamy minutes later, our table was a mess, and with one look in to the kitchen, Chris made his comment. Making a mess in a relationship may be inevitable, but making it together in our kitchen has only made us stronger- and our bellies more satisfied!

Chrissy Omo and her Cheese Farm!

2008-05-08T10:50:00.001-05:00

Exhausted after a flight from Miami in to Austin, and a long drive to my parents’ town in the hill country of Texas, they drove me straight to their precinct insisting that they get my vote in before the caucus was to close. After hours of unsuccessful chaos, a mouth-watering meal of pho the size of a fish tank, seared duck breast with plum sauce on an arugula salad, bottle of malbec, and a fiery plate of basil beef from August E’s- Fredericksburg’s hottest new restaurant- my body was ready to retire.

A refreshing sleep, only to be awoken by my sixty-one year old father, risen at sun-rise, ready to take “the day to its knees,” as he would say. Dressed in running gear, I realized that if I took half an hour getting ready, he would have already become too impatient and would have left for his run without me. Lucky for me, my strategy was achieved and when he came in sweating I sat satisfied in the kitchen, cup of coffee, filled with relaxation. That is—until I heard what was next on the agenda! I was to be picking up my boyfriend at the airport that afternoon, so when my father suggested that we all make the road trip together, and casually stop at a “goat cheese farm” along the way- I was a bit hesitant. Taken by surprise, I was simply happy to hear that the goat cheese part would be over before my boyfriend arrived- as he will have no part in anything to do with goat.

Another winding road trip through the hills of central Texas lead us to a farm where goats greeted us at the door of our car as opposed to dogs- like most homes. Alarmed at first, Chrissy simply implied that they wouldn’t hurt, and indeed you are encouraged to treat them as if they were pets. Chrissy is the young woman who practically runs the entire goat cheese farm- CKC Farms; everything from the milking to the churning, to the creations of flavors, gaining her skills from traveling in Italy.

I say young, because Chrissy is younger than me, and many of you know—I am only twenty-two years old. She and I hit it off as friendly young women would, and then suddenly a wisely mature young adult developed before my eyes. Her business goals, her gratefulness for her family, and willingness to work hard, were all qualities that are rare to find in a young woman. Sitting with a smile on my face, tasting her incredible samples- my favorite being the ash-coated chevre- I saw a woman who I not only admired, but also related to, and in that moment I felt incredibly comfortable in her warm aura of talent and confidence.

Taking a turn.

2008-04-16T21:10:00.003-05:00

This is a story from my childhood- an instance in my life where I tasted hints of my passion for food. This passion soon blossomed into a full on love affair, never to cease.

Fritters for the Family

Every year my family and I would join the Lind family in a neighboring Chicago suburb for a Christmas Eve meal. The youngest children would run around this beautifully restored historic home chasing the dogs and knocking over vases, while the teenagers would be in the basement listening to music, playing pong-pong and probably coming up with some rascally scheme that usually resulted in getting themselves in trouble. While the house was bustling with pets and children everywhere, the parents would always be in the kitchen. There would be several bottles of wine circulating and the occasional cigar being passed between the men. For as long as I can remember, this is where I wanted to be. I didn't really know why, but I was fascinated by the noticeable transformation throughout the night. The raw ingredients would transform into delectable delights. The conversations and laughs would progressively get louder and louder as more vino was consumed. The kitchen would become smokier, dirtier, noisier – in a way – homier.

My father would often pick at the food that was cooking – always when it was too hot, and when it was cooled, he would sometimes slip a nibble to me, in a way similar to when kids sneak food under the table to the family dog. But if I were to go in for a bite by myself, my hand would get slapped in the same way one would smack the family dogs nose when it would leap up for food. My father would look at me and say, "Only the chefs get to taste the food." It was obvious to me at that point that I would become one of the many chefs in that warm magical kitchen.

So, one of those nights at around the age of maybe six I wanted to partake in the action. Mrs. Lind fastened an over-sized durable red and white striped apron on my fragile bony body, pulled my long brown straggly hair back out of my face, and my father and I began to formulate antipasti, which would eventually be named, with the aid of several glasses of wine, "artichoke fritters." I tossed the quartered artichokes through a light egg wash and coated them in a breading made of coarsely chopped stale baguette. My tiny fingers were more coated than my precious artichokes, but I didn't care. Dad and I tossed them in a hot oiled pan on the stove and let them sizzle away. My father has this way of parenting where he would get us started on something in life and then let us loose. For example, teaching us to ride a bike, he would make us feel so comfortable and trusting in him, while he sturdily got us going, and I swear – just as he got us going – he would say something to the extent of : "It's all you" or "Go get 'em." On occasion this method would be beneficial, however many times it would result as a massive crash into a huge bush with twigs in my hair and big "bees on my knees." So, like bike riding, he handed me two potholders that covered my entire forearms past my elbows, put me on a stool for a little height, and let go of the spatula, leaving me in charge of the fritters. While sautéing an artichoke may not seem like a big deal, it can be if your forehead barely skims the top of the stove. So with a big smile on my face, and excitement in my heart, I flipped and fried these little guys, dousing them with fresh lemon and eventually serving them up to the adults in the kitchen. This was when I noticed the true benefits to be reaped of working in the kitchen. I received tastes of wine, bits of titillating adult conversation, compliments of my cooking, and as many bites of artichoke fritters and other exciting appetizers as I wanted. Needless to say, sitting at the kid's table for the next ten years or so, was something I always tried to get out of!

Daily Quote

2008-04-08T07:45:00.001-05:00

visit forbetterlife.org

In Thanksgiving....

2007-11-18T22:21:00.000-06:00

This began in Heathrow Airport, and I finally got back to it tonight....
Well, I did it. I did many things. I made it out of Africa safe and unharmed, I gained extra body parts from the carbohydrates and hydrogenated oils that consume an Africans diet, and I also put on one of the first fashion shows that Tanzanians have ever seen outside of television. It has been a journey that will always be held dearly in my heart, and will consume many thoughts of contemplation long after its days are completed. I have been struggling to find the words to sum up my experience. There are many more stories to share, however, perhaps they will not be shared right away. As there are many moments in life to pass along my experiences.
After a couple days of traveling through Nairobi, and after spending several hours perusing London’s duty free amusement park of goodies, and after many long uncomfortable flights, the words in order to articulate my trip are yet to come to me. Maybe it’s because the luxurious mani/pedi I received in Nairobi, or perhaps it is the hours of perfume testing I just endured that has killed many brain cells, whatever the case may be, it’s difficult to tap into what has just happened in the last two months. When exploring the memories, part of me feels robbed of the potential to make more memories. I think I really wish I could have stayed longer. The friendships I made seem as though they were stripped brutally off of me, because of my deadline for departure. I feel such strong emotions about this because I owe a lot of my success and happiness in Africa to the wonderful women I was able to work and live with. More particularly, to Clara my closest local friend, my ever incredible “pundas” who shared a room with me at the end of the trip, Gemma, Kate, and Bronwyn, a charming couple named Peter and Tara, and of course the strong willed, ever-determined women of KIWODEA. Without all of these influential people my experience in Africa would have been greatly altered. In looking back on the trip, I suppose, as I have just shown, that my first response to it is overall gratitude. I am overwhelmed with appreciation for the whole experience altogether. However, as with many things in life, this trip only came together in the unbelievable fashion that it did, due to the people who helped me achieve it in all ways from financially to just simply providing love, smiles, and inspiration. This trip has been so much about the people in ones life. I would like to carry on for pages of thanks to all the people for providing me with this experience, from the Goldfield’s for housing me for several nights in Nairobi, to people like Oliva and Catherine whose smiles, hand holding, and whines of emotion were reassuring to hear because it was the only language that we could all understand, and to most importantly- not that there is an order, but truly without them there is no possible way I would have endured such an incredible experience- my parents. Thank you for helping me go the whole way, for being my biggest admirers, for believing in me, and for enlisting such breathtaking motivation into me as you followed and pushed me with every step of the way.
Like many life formative experiences, I will be looking back on these months in Africa in great contemplation. I traveled to many destinations in East Africa while I was there, but in addition to the people I met along the way, and the travels that will forever fill my memory book, and the work I endured in hopes of improving lives, I think that what it all comes down to are the lessons I have learned.
They are not straightforward, more like simplistic observations. I learned from the Tanzanian children who would greet us daily outside of our compound and chase our cars, waving and smiling with their perfectly round symmetrical faces and tiny innocent hands extended by malnourished arms as their soft fingers extended love and adoration to those of us who extended ours in return. These pure hearts of virtuousness that is exhibited by the small ones of Tanzania taught me gratitude and compassion. My resistance to the snotty noses and impoverished living conditions taught me tolerance and adaptability. The bizarrely slow and frustrating way business is run in another country has taught me patience and forgiveness. Even when people on the same deadline and goals as me took days to get anything accomplished, I was forced to accept the way another culture gets things done. The incredibly bumpy roads, lack of transportation, and somewhat less than inhabitable living conditions, have given me perspective on the simple luxuries that our country possesses. The way that Tanzanians welcome you time and time again into their homes and hearts has helped me to open my heart to others and to myself. The fear that plagued my utter existence in the first weeks of gut-wrenching culture shock has taught me to not take myself so seriously. The ignorance I once possessed has now provided me with a welcoming heart.
In Africa or in any remote place of this sort, where there is plenty of time for your mind to wander and your heart to peruse its eternal existence, you learn a lot about yourself. Most importantly, you learn to be comfortable with yourself, I got glimpses of what it means to really truly love yourself. Walking in to the compound where I lived, it seemed as though an entire layer of skin was melting off of me. More like singeing off of me, because what I saw and felt was so painful. It was not the poverty of Africa, as one may think from that statement, it was the panic that suddenly crept up on me like a ghost in the night. I asked myself over and over again, “what was I thinking when I signed up to live with four women in a room smaller than a dormroom in Africa for two months without immediate communication to the outside world?” I was lonely and scared, the pain gripped my stomach into knots squeezing tears out of my eyes as my face lost all color. I panicked, I cried, and I kept asking myself “why,” as if someone or something had died. It was in the bathroom that night with my mind and spirit tangled in horrific fear, when I realized that I wasn’t there for myself. The communication with familiarity that I so longed for was no longer there, it was just me. I answered my questions, I remembered “why” I was there: I was there to volunteer. I was there to be there for others, to help others, and all I really had to offer was myself. So, with my mind, body, and spirit finally coordinating I pulled myself into my bunk bed having gathered one of the greatest lessons in life. Tucking my mosquito net in that first night, I realized that I was going to be ok, and that I was going to be able to help. And that’s exactly what I did. I helped others, and they helped me. And for one of the first times in my life, a fog began to lift, and I felt sound and stable, in my own body, in my own mind.
The last week that I was there was the accumulation of all my work at KIWODEA with the women. We successfully put on a “fashion show” in the dirt yard at the KIWODEA building. There was a donation made for the kids of a local orphanage to have clothes made for them by the women of KIWODEA. So, in order to provide awareness and support of these two organizations, I put together this little publicity event for them. The orphans modeled the clothes on a batik runway, with African drumming, the sun setting behind Kilimanjaro, and the neighborhood and volunteers all joined us in dancing, singing, drinking banana wine in celebration of the launch of the clothing lines. There was about 150 people there, the women were able to sell their goods, and they made local foods for all the guests. It was a blast, everyone laughed, danced, cried, and took lots of pictures- hopefully I can share some soon!
The last week of my time was filled with excitement, sadness, and remembrance. I wanted to soak in every detail. Never shying away from putting my head out of the window while cruising at high speeds through the hilly countryside of Africa. There was something so freeing about those moments. Taking in all the smells, the warm African sun, and the simple joys that surrounded my life. I realized while I was there, that a place so poverty stricken, doesn't have to be sad. In fact it probably- no definitely- possessed some of my happiest moments thus far in my life. You realize that while everyone is seemingly living in shambles, unable to afford the simple things that we as Americans tend to take advantage of. Rather, this is their life, with the exception of the occasional TV, the people who inhabit such beautifully ancient earth have become one with their surroundings. For those who do not dwell on the poverty, there is a life that exceeds it all
In the end I have come away with so much gratitude and so much growth. I would like to depart with one last story. This is a story about a man named Peter, and his wife Tara. Peter volunteered almost two years ago at an orphanage in Moshi. This particular orphanage, “Upendo” which means something to the extent of “love” in Swahili(they actually don’t have a word that directly translates to love in Kiswahili.) Well, Peter had an immediate connection with a little girl at the orphanage, then learned she had a twin sister, he took these girls in giving them the attention they needed. Side note- this particular orphanage is one of the more impoverished- the children there eat dirt because their bodies are so malnourished. Long story short, Peter called his wife back in the states, and proposed that they adopt the girls, who are about two years old named Sevorina and Senorina. One long grueling year later, about five trips to Africa, an expensive lawyer, and a lot of pain and happiness later, the judge has finally granted them the chance to take the girls home to the states! I met Peter on Tara the day of the fashion show because they had just flown in for the final hearing from the Moshi judge, and I had the twins modeling a line of clothing in the show. They helped me prepare for the event all day. Even helping me to bring all the rented chairs to the site. We didn’t have a car, so we stacked about four plastic chairs on our heads like the Africans do, and walked almost a mile in midday African sun in our conservative clothing, just like the people of the culture that we were living in. It was myself, and some of my closest friends, all women, all different ages, local and foreign—and Peter and Tara. In those trips back and forth with the chairs on our head Tara talked to me about how difficult the process has been to adopt the girls. They have been through hell and back with the process- Madonna not having helped it with her little stunt in Malawi. Peter was to stay longer than her to finalize the process, she is a pediatrician in North Carolina, and they have two boys at home. Learning from this strong couple, Tara told me of her Christmas wish. She described the vision she held of her Christmas present. It was of the twin girls getting off the flight with Peter holding their little hands, and herself waiting there with their two boys, and to finally have the family united in the holiday season.
It is this vision of a family finally being brought together in a happy loving home, that I have left with. My mother often tells me that there is no stronger love, than the love for your family. It may have taken me to fly across the planet to figure out some minor life lessons, but in these past few months I have come away with gratitude, growth, and most importantly love. Not just with the people of Africa. But, What it all comes down to is, I have fallen in love with the world. For now, this is my story. These are some of my stories, thank you for listening, and I invite you to love the way that I did. Some days its hard to remember these lessons, but as I bring myself back, I sit simply. Smiling to myself having been shown one of the greatest gifts in life. Thank you for all of you who have helped provide me with this experience. Thank you.

Going to the Chapel

2007-10-21T00:42:00.000-05:00

Here at CCS, there are local volunteers. Usually kids- mostly boys- who are around twenty years old, maybe in school, maybe not. They volunteer their time to help us at our placements, which is nice to help the language barrier. The boys are dashingly handsome, friendly, outgoing and so much fun. They take us out and around town, and on the weekends, we sometimes accompany them to what we call, “shaky shaky.” Just a local pub, that turns into a crazy nightclub with lots and lots of dancing. I’ll leave the details out, I don’t know if everyone (I mean my parents) would like to hear about shaky shaky.
The only girl who is a local volunteer has become one of my good friends. She was contracted to work with a different women’s group each day of the week, but I was a bit greedy with her, and she ended up becoming a great presence at KIWODEA, she and I were initiated in on the same day. Initiation isn’t anything other than getting a beaded bracelet that says KIWODEA, and they photograph and dance and pray when they put it on your hand. Quite cute, actually. Eventually Clara’s presence at KIWODEA became apparent, and with the position of Direct of Micro Finance loans being open, we suggested that she try to fill the position. Having just graduated from University, she needs a job, and I am excited to inform you that Clara was hired by KIWODEA. This is good for many reasons, but one of them being that we have never had a paying position in our organization, and now we are starting to be in a position where we could afford to hire her!
Clara took me shopping one day, it was rather interesting. The clothes here are all pretty much second hand clothes that are shipped over from places like America. The Africans don’t acknowledge that they are second hand, merely because they don’t know. Therefore, there’s usually only one of each piece, so you have to hope to find something in your size. We stopped by to meet Clara’s parents at their store, and Clara’s mother took my hand and walked us up and down this busy street, helping me to find clothes. I was really only looking for some simple white tanks or t-shirts, it is a lot warmer here than I thought it would be, and for some reason I packed at least five grey sweaters- No, I have no idea what I was thinking when I packed. So Clara’s Mama drug me around tossing clothes at me, talking to me in Swahili, and making me try outfits on in places that were definitely not dressing rooms. Somehow, I came away with a rather tacky pair of “baby-phat” looking capris with a silver gold belt, and some weird top that I cant seem to explain. When I asked Clara to take me shopping, I clearly did not realize what I was getting myself into, I seriously think I was hoping that there was a hidden GAP somewhere in Africa, and Clara would be able to take me there. Don’t worry, I am fully aware of my ignorance! Laughing the whole way through, I had to buy something- good thing everything here is inexpensive!
At work the other day, Clara invited me to go to church with her. Of course I didn’t pass up the invitation, and after a night of good Indian food and lots of wine, Gemma and I somehow rolled out of bed, and began walking to town at 7:15AM. Everyone was on the road, in their church clothes, walking the same direction, and when we turned around, Kili was watching us without a cloud in the sky. I wasn’t able to find Clara until after the ninety minute service, so Gemma and I- the only white people- sat in the back of this massive Catholic church that held over fifteen hundred people. They pack them in, I was practically sitting on the woman next to me. The eight o’clock service is mostly English, which was nice, even though I didn’t really understand much besides the Lord’s Prayer. We started singing, and then drums started playing, and soon we were fully immersed in the service, clapping our hands. It is a pretty conservative church so there wasn’t dancing or swaying or anything like that. The kneelers were made of just wood, it felt like you were kneeling on a 2X4- I will never complain about those nice padded ones we have in the states! Thenn, during communion, they started singing, “Hear I am Lord, It is I Lord….” It flooded back memories of Catholic school, the last time I was in a Catholic church, and the other day a local orphanage sang the song for us, outside, in their courtyard and the sun set behind the banana trees. I looked around me, and realized where I was and the song kept getting louder, and the drums kept a steady beat, and I stood there with tears streaming down my face. I am not a religious person per say, but there was something about that moment, that made my eyes well up and throat choke as I smiled and cried at the same time with the vibrations of that song pounding through my body. It was an experience I will always remember.
Clara came up from behind us at the end, and hugged me with her huge beautiful smile; we stood under that warm African sun and laughed about not finding each other.

Painting the Tailoring Room- Oct 4

2007-10-20T23:50:00.000-05:00

There are some things about the cultural differences that will never be understood. Their experiences have proved to teach them in a different way than what I learned as an American. In painting the sewing room for the women I couldn’t seem to understand why we were spackling the cracks and holes, when the rest of the place is covered with spiderwebs, dirt, and mold. It seemed bizarre to me the order of getting things done, and the manner that it was done in. They are insistent on painting the trim brown, when I know that this will only make the small room look smaller. I bought sky blue and white paint to expand the room and brighten it up, but now we must paint the trim brown?! They persisted on using thinner with the paint. I put my foot down, didn’t give the money, and finally they gave in and bought paint thinner. Why? I don’t really know, but like all cultures, there is a certain reason that we do things, and sometimes the reason is unknown it is merely passed down from generation to generation. Locked in that room all day painting with no windows, my work partner walked in and was overwhelmed with the smell, and pushed me outside to get fresh air. Then they kept telling me I must drink milk to help me feel better from the fumes. Well, as some of you may know, milk does bad things to my body, so I didn’t really think that (African)milk and paint fumes were a good combo for me in this heat. Somewhere along the line, they have learned that my drink of choice around here is Kilimajaro lager. Sure enough, I turned around and had Catherine and Oliva giving me a cold kili at 11:30AM! I tried to refuse, but like the damn paint thinner they insisted, so I gave in, and between the beer and the fumes, we were singing Tanzanian songs, and trying to teach eachother our respective languages, because nothing seems to be getting communicated at that place! Nonetheless, I may have left KIWODEA today with less brain cells than I went in with this morning, but it is compensated with the wonderful memories of smiles and warm gestures that I took home with me this afternoon. Well, my roommates are keeping a close eye on me right now, insisting in their own way that I sit outside and get lots of fresh air. When I got back to the homebase Mama Judith, the head cleaning lady here, took me to the kitchen to request cold milk for me, once again, everyone in their own culture has specific ideas. While I sat there struggling almost in tears with difficulties of trying to communicate with the women today, I have come away with the realization that like myself, they are only trying to help. Sometimes the way they go about doing it makes it much more difficult for me to get anything done, but in the big picture here, the women at KIWODEA, my roommates, mama Judith, and myself are all just trying to help in our own way, and keeping an open mind is the key here.

by the way...........

2007-10-18T01:38:00.000-05:00

I thought some of you might find this funny....
Tanzanians can't pronounce my name. The closest they have come is "meriditty," which is what Mama Tesha- the founder of KIWODEA- calls me.
So, my name tag for the first few days said, "Mere."
Which they pronounce "Mary."
Which the spell, "Merry."
Really, on a cake they made for me, it said "Asante Sana Merry," which means "thank you very much Merry!"
So now, I go by Mary, but then people(like cab drivers), then change it to Maria, which is the Swahili version of Mary. So somehow, I have become, "Maria, the mother of Jesus." Seriously- there has been more than one person who has called/told me that.
There was also an occasion at our favorite restaurant where all the female waitresses kept calling me "Miss." But, using it as a name- because they don't use that here as a title like they do in the states. So, finally someone asked them why they kept approaching me giddily calling me "miss." Apparently, and we think it was because of my outfit which was a long light blue Patagonia dress, they were saying that Ilooked like "Miss America, or Miss Tanzania" Yes, they really did say that! My height stands out here. I am one of the tallest volunteers, with the exception of a tall Texan who is here, and definetly much taller than the Tanzanians. That's our excuse for the stares anyway, not too mention, the color of my skin.

Just some funny stories of interactions to share with you today, I am off to KIWODEA for a few hours, then trekking to Arusha for the afternoon. A two hour hot bus ride with probably several chickens on my lap. Should be interesting....

KIWODEA

2007-10-16T01:19:00.000-05:00

I haven't spoken much about work thus far, but it's what I have been most consumed with. Here's my attempt to catch up the last few weeks of work.
So I was put in charge of the "tailoring project." Somewhere along the line, they had learned that I previously worked in fashion(at a boutique in Boulder-- Lola!), and my interest in the baby clothes that make sparked some ideas. When we asked where they were selling the clothes, they responded my more or less pointing at us, and mumbling something about me taking them back to the states to sell. WHOA WHOA WHOA....... This is NOT a good idea! The previous volunteer who had begun the project, had orginally taken them back to a boutique in Manhattan, but then when the clothes shrank unexpectedly that whole gig fell through. Basically the women were left with some adorable children's clothes, and no where to sell them, because they are not suitable for African children. They are light colored, and surpass the amount that parents spend on their kids clothes, in maybe all of their lives. Not to say they are expensive, it's just that children here where the same outfit day in day out, and its always covered in dirt.
After having been put in charge of this project, my partner and I tried to find local touristy vendors in town to sell the clothes. We got mixed feedback, and it hasn't really proved to be working thus far. However, do to some friends of Gilbert and Triphine's I am working with some great contacts in Arusha, which should start working out soon.
The volunteer who was working with me last, has left to go back to Boston already, however she and a friend donated clothes to a local orphanage. She had KIWODEA make them, so there are two organizations that are coming together, helping one another, KIWODEA is making money, and Kili Centre for street kids and orphans is getting clothed.
Through a lot of contemplation, planning, and getting lots of approval, I finally have received the go-ahead to put on a fashion show! In one week, right before I depart back to the states, I am putting on a publicity event for these two organizations, bringing together the community, inviting United Nations reps, Moshi COmmunity Development Commitee, all CCS volunteers, and several other prominent local contacts, to partake in a celebration. We will be finished with all the outfits for the Kili Centre Orpahange by then(God willingly), and will present the clothes to the kids in the afternoon. The children have been practicing with my closest friend here, Gemma, who is at their placement everyday teaching and playing with them. We will begin with a few speeches, some food made by the KIWODEA women, perhaps some banana wine, and then the children are putting on a fashion show of their new outfits, and I will be walking the down the "runway!" We have two lines of clothing that we are now able to make well, one for local children like school uniforms, and then another which is catered to the tourists to take back home. After introducing the two lines of clothing the kids have been preparing songs and dances for us, which they will then present. The whole event is taking place in the dirt yard in front of KIWODEA, and should be quite the show!
Right now, we are in the throws of planning every detail. I am in town in the morning emailing contacts to get the lines in stores before I leave so that this project is indeed self-sustainable for the women. Then at placement working with the women, who are all very excited, and sewing away. In the afternoons at Kili Centre rehearsing the show with the kids, and in the meantime-- having anxiety!!! (In a good way of course!)
The sewing room was less than healthy for them to be with, so I got in there, scribbed the moldy walls, and together we painted the walls a lovely shade of sky blue. When I first entered KIWODEA over a month ago, I was at a loss, or so I thought. It took a long time to meet anyone, because no one was ever there, and we really didnt know how we were going to help. Now, when I enter in the morning, the place is abuzz with activity, we finally have elctricity, there are sewing machines clacking away, and the women are often breaking out in songs, and we are always laughing!
KIWODEA has become my second home, and I have trouble articulating how far we have come, but I am just astounded at how we have pulled this all together. Working as one big group, instead of struggling individuals, we have made some serious leadway, and I just hope that the fashion show goes smoothly and that by the time I leave the clothing line will be sustainable for them to continue.
I will keep you updated with our progress. I am off to lunch with the founder of our organization, another feaast of stewed bananas and pilau(rice with veggies). mUch more to tell, but I will try to keep updating.
Kwaheri.

Mt. Kilimanjaro

2007-10-15T08:27:00.000-05:00

I don't know how to make this story brief- but I have to. Time constraints in Africa seem to keep me on my toes.
Bethany, my girlfriend who accompanied me to Zanzibar just got back from climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I wanted to go with her, but work obviously overrided that decision seeing as how it is a seven day trek. So I wished her well, let her borrow my headlamp, and waited for the stories. Hiking Kili has many factors. The hardest aspect for most is the altitude adjustion, often causing even really fit people to not make it to the top. Most take medication, and keep on trekking. Sometimes it is your mind that doesnt let you continue, whatever the case may be, it is not an easy trek.
Back at home base, we eagerly awaited her arrival. Then it happened, I ran in to her unexpectedly in town, a week later, right before she was coming to visit us.
Despite a less then fit(mentally and physically) travel partner, Bethany had made it!
It wasn't until later that we got the story. She joined Gemma and I in our room, sat on the floor, and the Zanzibar girls were reunited, this time in a different state. She sat there and told us of her trek, how you pass through multiple climates in several days, how she had to put up with this girl from homebase who we had all previously clashed with. Then she told us of how she awoke at midnight the last night, and they began the six hour hike uphill. They do this, because if one were to see what is ahead of you, it is too mentally defeating, so they do it at night. Hiking through snow, they kept going, clearly I can not explain the feeling, but as she sat there, my senses were heightened as she continued the story. As the sun rose, she was approaching the top of Kili, which is almost like a big crater. She reached the top, looking around, above the clouds, and the sun painted the sky with pink and orange. As she looked out she wept, and as she told the story she wept, and as we all sat there, we all wept together. We let it out, tears streaming down our faces. It was a combination of pride in her climb, and acknowledgement of where we are, of who we are, more importantly of who we have become in these last few weeks. We have been growing, learning, struggling, traveling, laughing, comforting, tasting, and loving together. We looked around the room, and sighed a big sense of relief.
We celebrated her last night with a big meal of Indian food and red wine, recalling the stories we have made thus far. Congratualtions Bethany! I look forward to the day when I can return to do this accomplishment. I have a climbing partner in mind....

Walking to Town(Moshi)

2007-10-11T09:45:00.000-05:00

So, I have started coming to town much more often to take care of work. We used to just lay on the grass, eating bananas, washing our clothes in big tubs of soapy water, testing one anothers swahili, and counting down the hours, until its appropriate to venture across the street (rocky dirt road) to join our local friends for a cold Safari- yes, I've moved on to a different beer. 5.5% alchohol, and less than a dollar for more than a pint. Between the ugali and lager, my body is definetly changing! Now, I strap on my chacoes, put my hair up, pack my batik bag, and start walking down rocky dusty roads with the sun beating down, and Tanzanian children running up to you asking "what is your name" holding your hand and skipping down the road with you. African children are always smiling, and always friendly, and always trying to touch-talk-lick-play with you.One of our favorites is Henry. Henry is crosseyed, doesn't know much english, and very reserved. He is thirteen yrs old, but has the body and mannerisms of probably a seven year old. He waits for us at the bar, and asks us to buy him a pop when we get there. How could you resist?! He looks at us with these eyes that look every which way, and is so calm. He's started walking us to the track where we run. Ben tells him that he's the coach, and I dont know if he knows what that means, but I think he likes the attention. Dont worry, I have a great picture of Henry to share when I get back.
The rest of the way to town is hot and dusty. Constantly trying to maneuver between the huge holes in the road, dodge cars, bicycles, and dalla dallas. Dalla dallas are one of the many spectacles of Africa. Basically, its a white van, that is always filled BEYOND capacity. There's usually at least threee heads hanging out the windows, occasionally some chickens, everyone is sitting on top of one another, and if youre lucky- you'll get to ride for a hole hour in one of these with a goat in between your legs(which is what one of my friends got to witness). Oh- and I dont know how I forgot this, but African women still carry EVERYTHING on their head! Literally everything- I saw a woman carrying an entire full sized wooden bed frame on her way to town yesterday. Once you get close, people begin harassing you much more, not my favorite aspect of living here, but I will talk more about that later. As for now, I must sign off. I only have five min left at the inet cafe, and there's a good chance it will take the whole time or more just to publish this post.
Salama

Zanzibar

2007-10-10T07:21:00.000-05:00

So, my last entry was awhile ago, therefore I have some serious catching up to do. Beginning with the story of my girlfriends and I escaping Moshi to tropical Zanzibar for the weekend. Yes, there really is a place called Zanzibar, I know some thought it was ficticious. After a couple of days planning, my friends and I were crammed into a hot sticky van, eating our packed lunches from CCS, which consist of butter sandwiches, cold french fries, saran-wrapped hot-dog weiner, and some other fried surprises that I cant quite describe. Despite the disappointing lunch, we were soon cruising through the clouds in a plane without aircon that is constanly jumping up and down, and from side to side, while swahili is practically being yelled through the loudspeakers above our heads. Needless to say, I don't think the butter sandwiches were a good pre-flight meal. Flying in over the islands that provide lush tropical beaches of white sand and aqua colored water you could see the rows of shacks where the islanders lived. Into a taxi that had only one working door and a hole in the bottom, driven by a non-english speaking Muslim, we were off to our hotel.
Zanzibar is 99% Muslim, and they are currently in the middle of Ramadan(sp?). This means that the entire island is fasting when the sun is out, and going for prayer four times a day. So, Stonetown the main inhabited area was rather quiet throughout the day while we were there. Which was nice, because it gave us plenty of time to lay on the beach reading our books, getting henna painted on our feet, and have lemongrass massages. I was with Gemma, who is my closest friend here, she is a social worker from Yorkshire, and is a lovely and sound young woman. I was also with Bethany, who ironically grew up outside of Chicago, then moved to a small town in Texas, and has spent the last few years living in Colorado, only an hour away from me. She is currently climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, so I can't wait to hear all her stories! The three of us shared a beach bungalow, and made the most of our weekend vacation from work. Some of the highlights of this trip were a tour of stonetown through the markets where bananas, coconuts, and any other troopical fruit you can think of, were the colorful surroundings. We bravely ventured into the fish market where octupus were being splattered onto chopping boards, and huge fish were being split open and auctioned off to the locals, as fish guts and blood drained down the side of where we were walking into gross piles of flies and cats. The cats- there were cats everywhere! No dogs, just lots and lots of stray cats. ANother highlight was the spice tour which entailed walking through the forest/jungle tasting different spices, drinking coconut water right out of the shell- coconuts there are different than the brown hairy ones we are a accustomed to. Rather they are big and green, filled to the brim with coconut water, and have fleshy bites of coconut that easily slide down your throat. Like everything I have experienced thus far in Africa, it was quite nice, but only when they werent asking for money. Our guide would often suggest giving the forest children money, and people were always asking for more, for more tip, for more money, for you to marry them so that they can come live in America, never leaving you alone while in Zanzibar, except when in the privacy of your hotel(if youre lucky).
The dinners, and most meals were absolutely lovely in Zanzibar, fresh seafood for really cheap cooked with every spice imaginable, served to you at your candle lit table on the beach overlooking the water, with only the moon lighting up the sky. When the cats werent pawing your feet, it really was unbelievably magical to be on that island surrounded by gorgeous beaches, in the Indian Ocean on the coast of Africa, with great girlfriends.
Overall, Zanzibar was an incredible experience, and I have great photos to share when I get home!

Utilizing the BLOG

2007-10-06T04:17:00.000-05:00

Now that I am choosing to do inserts in more of a blog style in shorter increments whenever I come to town, I may simply focus on one topic, or just ramble about a few as opposed to formatting it into a long email with multiple stories. I hope you enjoy!

Second Group Email sent 29 September, 2007

2007-10-06T04:15:00.000-05:00

Hello to all!
So, life in Africa has continued......... and my assimilation process has not only begun, but has greatly flourished! I am a very comfortable working resident of Tanzania. I have put my hand sanitizer back in my purse, as opposed to walking around constantly doucing myself and am quickly adjusting to the vast amounts of dust and dirt that has caused a nasty cough, as well as letting my senses become accustomed to the smells of strong body odor to diesel fumes to raw meat being sold in open air without any refrigeration process. I was a bit paranoid at first, but have I let go of many of my fears and embraced the insects, and am peacefully living as a part of the community in Moshi.
Work has slowly but surely thrived. AT first it was very difficult, especially with the language barrier, to really grasp what these women needed of us. However, through a patient process, we have realized that organization, leadership, and really just communicating love and optimism is the root of what these women really need. Mama Tesha, the founder of KIWODEA took us into her home last week, and gave us presents of African tanga wraps, adorning us in a full dress covering our heads, and cooked us a delicious feast of banana stew with rice, and vegetables, and introduced Kelly, Clara(our local volunteer), and I to banana wine. Then she presented us with a cake she had made with our names on it thanking us for our help in Swahili! I don't know if it was the banana wine, or the malarone(our malaria medication), but this welcoming of grace and compassion helped provide us with a new and warm perspective of our lives and duties here amongst our African neighbors. So, I have been put in charge of the "Tailoring Project," and have put our six tailors to work on the baby clothes. On monday I am painting the room a nice sky blue, as opposed to the moldy dusty walls they currently have, and srubbing the floors, and we are getting new machines to help make more quality clothing. Our first project is to clothe the children of one of the nearby orphanages which a friend of ours is sponsoring. After that, we have high hopes of making expensive "mzungu" clothes. Mzungu doesn't translate directly, but it means "white person." The Africans here have this view of all westerners as being wealthy and powerful, so if we are able to target this particular market, then the income will hopefully become sustainable for the women even after I leave in a month. Or at least, this is our current thought process.
The home base is extremely comfortable these days. Everyone is very close, and we actually lost our first wave of volunteers today, as many of them are only here for 3-4 week periods. The food consists of mostly curried or stewed vegetables, typically covered in butter and oil, occasionally some chewy meat, lots of lentils, beans, and a plethora of different carbs-- rice, white bread, fried dough, cooked bananas, ugali, more white bread, and some more fried dough.... Needless to say, I will not be returning with my same figure! There is however, lots of fresh fruit like papaya, coconut, pineapple, oranges, and at home base we can eat the salad which is usually lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and huge meaty chunks of rich avocado, covered in a minced onion vinagrette. Unfortunately, when we are out, the food options are VERY limited. Everything must be cooked, and you usually can only eat in a touristy restaurant, if you want to be safe. So, yesterday, when one of the women at KIWODEA cooked us salted dehydrated fish and fried cassava(at ten in the morning mind you) we were unable to consume(thank goodness).
We did however find a running track for the university here which is about a twenty minute walk from home. So, some friends and I have been walking to the dirt track before dinner in the hot african dusty afternoons to take some laps for our only exercise, because we are usually transported everywhere due to safety. Running around the track with the pebbles flying up behind me, and cows and goats being herded by the Massai tribes right next to us, and sometimes even across the track, and Kilimanjaro looking down at us with its snowpeaked mountain top is the best way to clear my head after a day of struggling with swahili, and an attempt to keep some of the fried dough from sticking to my body. It truly is a breathtaking experience.
Last week we took a trip to Mrangu, did all types of things like going to the blacksmiths to buy real African spears, to climbing through the caves with the bats to see where the Chagga tribesmen used to live, to my favorite, which was hiking through the lush tropical jungle part of the country down to a 100ft. waterfall. Flowers and moss adorning the walls of our surroundings, and water plummeting into the cold river where yellow butterflies found refuge in the moist air, and some of us chose to cool our hot sweaty bodies by submerging ourselves, clothes on and all. It was a lovely day followed by meat skewers and potatoes back at homebase.
On Wednesday of this week we ventured to Arusha which, is about an hour and a half drive, in order to observe some of the United Nations criminal court tribunals concerning the genocide of Rwanda. Being in such a high security place, in a country that greatly lacks any real safety was quite a high. We listened to the translated version of a defense attorney drilling an author who has published many of the claims about the truth pf the massacre that took place in Rwanda, because the leadership there did such a good job of covering their footsteps. It was difficult to really understand what was going on, but absolutely fascinating, especially because they were discussing matters that took place almost fifteen years ago, and the surrounding countries and itself are still in great turmoil about.
Typical Moshi....... I began this email Friday morning(thurs night for most of you) in town at an inet cafe, and all of the electricity for the city went down. Luckily gmail saves drafts as you go along, so most of it has remained. Regardless, since then I took a flight friday afternoon over the Indian Ocean into Zanzibar for a weekend of exploring and beach relaxation, however, those stories will come in the next email...
Hope all are doing well, and a special happy birthday to my wonderful Uncle Kent!
Love to all, Meredith

first group email- sent September 16

2007-09-22T04:16:00.000-05:00

Hujambo?!
I know some of you may have already heard from me, or some of you don't even know, regardless, I am happy to report that I am alive and thriving in a village in Tanzania. I find it hard to begin this, therefore I shall start from the beginning.
Twenty four hours of flying began my journey and upon arriving at the Kenya airport, I still had not felt any real culture shock, partly because I ran into someone who I worked with at the Rec Center in college. However, it didnt take long for the initial shock to hit me, for when stepping out of the airport at ten o' clock at night, you are mobbed by Africans trying to get you in their taxi. Luckily for me, Howard Goldfield, a friend of my mother's from college, swooped in to help me with my bags and whisk me away in his protective SUV. The drive at night kind of scared me, and I thought I would warm up to the surroundings in the morning, however, it really wasn't that easy especially considering the police with machine guns on every corner seemed to scare me a bit at first. Kenya, however is extraordinarily beautiful with fruits and flowers speckling the landscape, and Howard's home and family were beyond lovely and gracious, so feeling comfortable was a pleasure.
After a wonderful two day tour of Kenya, petting giraffes and going to the elephant orphanage, it was time to set me on my flight to Tanzania. Everything is much different here, difficult to explain, but it seems much more chaotic here. One has to be on guard at all times, and become accustomed to really no rules, like smoking and not really any security in the airport. Nonetheless, I boarded the small 24 passenger rickety plane out on the runway, and after a short plane ride I was descending into the airport while passing Mount Kilimanjaro at sunset, landing on the runway and walking out into the crisp night air relishing in the colors of the sun plummeting behind Kilimanjaro. Feeling confident I went in, with my visa, got my luggage, and met the van and four other older women volunteers from the U.K. for a bumpy hour ride into the village I was to be living in. The moment upon arrival, my confidence quickly vanished, and anxiety and fear overtook my entire sensation. I walked around getting the tour with tears in my eyes, asking myself, "what was I thinking going to Africa for two months to live in a bunk bed in some rural village with complete strangers?!" After a hot shower, and some introductions I crawled into my top bunk and began to write in my journal. It was at that point that I realized that it wasn't about me, I wasn't here for "me." I was there to volunteer, and an uncomfortable shock to living in the compound would eventually start to cease.
Getting use to my community of other volunteers didn't take long. I adored my three roomates(with perhaps one exception), the food was edible, the roosters crowing all night were ok with my earplugs, and the banana and mango trees in our yard were lovely surroundings.
We did some cultural tours, like going to the town we live outside of, called Moshi- which is where I am right now in an internet cafe- met the village chief, went to the market, and became friends with all of the children, who are so eager to talk/touch/smile/wave/high-five you. After days of orientation I finally began my job.
I am working for a local NGO called KIWODEA, which stands for Kilimanjaro Women's Development Association. It is a group of thirty five disadvantaged women whose main goals are environmentalreform and reduction of poverty in the community. My roomate, Kelly- who is in her late thirties and has been in marketing for 13 years in Boston- and I showed up with buisness plans to teach these women to market themselves well, how to increase their income, and any other Western ideas we could implement to help them. Well, we showed up, in our long skirts and cardigans to what seemed like a vacant sirty building without electricity or running water. Turns out, they really dont have many plans, someof them don't even work, and they really couldnt communicate to us in my struggling swahili what it is that we could do for them. The next day we went in with a translator, and tried to figure out what we could do to help. They have recieved a grant from the United Nations for beekeeping and souvenir-making training and supplies to help them start up sustainable buisnesses. Well, they dont knw when they will be getting the beehives(any day now, they say) and the cards that they make out of banana leaves are just sitting around with the adorable childrens clothes that they have made getting dirty. There is comething called TFT which stands for Tanzanian Felexible Time, which basically means, everything will happen when it happens, no hurry, no real motivation to do anything in a timely manner, and you're not late, you're just "delayed." Needless to say, it has been a nightmare attempting to organize these projects and help get the women started. However, slowly bu surely we are beginning to attempt to make more childrens clothes and try to get vendors in town to sell them. Unfortunately, I don't have time to go into detail about our project, but next email, I will have an update on the progress of KIWODEA. ALso, I forgot to mention that in this empty barn-like building are twentyfive 3-5 yr olds who come for "school" in the morning. The first day we walked into the dark dusty room to huge smiles and waves from their desks, as they resited in unison "good morning teacher." Kelly and I hadn't planned on teaching children, but we got up to the front of the classroom and attemptedto teach them "row row row your boat," and it was semi-successful. Today we bought supplies to help decorate the room with colorful letters and numbers, and books to help teach the women and children english.
The weekend rolled around, and thirteen of us decided to go on a safari trip out to the ngorogoro crater and lake manyara. After a quick camel ride at sunset on friday night, we went to visit a real Massai tribal village, and herded the cattle in at night for milking and visited the huts where families of up to ten can easily share two bed type things, a fire pit, five chickens, a dog, and the cows if they are young. The mother was nursing her newborn baby, and with a translator we were able to learn all about the Massai lifestyle, which is beyond interesting. Dinner, then off to our tent which was set up next to a nice pool so we sat outside having some Kilimanjaro's which is the beer we like here, and then to bed for an early rise to the National Parks. The experience of driving around vast land in Africa with binoculars spotting lions, zebras, wildebeests, giraffes, elephants, baboons, flamingoes, etcectera, could easily take anotherpage, however hopefully if I am ever able to send photoes you will get a teaste of what our adventure held for my friends and I. Oh, and yes- there were hippoes too!
Sunday afternoon we made the drive back to Moshi in our large LandRovers, cruising through the countryside as I finished Gilbert Tuhabonye's book, This Voice in My Heart. Passing the banana trees and villages that he desricbed so well, it was a surreal experience, especially because as some of you know, he is a good friend of our family. His book is about his survival of the Burundi genocide and his escape to the United States. Making the experience even more surreal, was that we were passing through Arusha which is the town where the UN tribunal court sessions concerning the genocide in Rawanda are being held currently.
So, this is just a taste of my life in Africa, hope all you are doing well, I send my love to all. Email is scarce for me, however, I would love to hear from everyone! While I am nowhere near experiencing anything as profound nor provide the wisdom that Gilbert was able to, I knew that while barreling through the countryside of Africa, passing the mama's transporting bananas on their head, and the children smiling, waving, and chasing our truck, that there was this voice in my heart telling me that I am supposed to be here.
Thank you to Gilbert for inspiration, and to the rest of you for support.
Salama(peace) -Meredith

Getting Started....

2007-09-03T12:32:00.000-05:00

Moving to Africa... When I told my father that this time in my life seems surreal, he said it seems "real." Never can seem to agree on too much these days, so which is it? Surreal or Real? Part of my adventures in life these days, are a strong attempt to live in the moment. However, if I view this upcoming endeavor as surreal, then I am seemingly not living in the moment. Therefore I must embrace this time, embrace these last two days in the states, and embrace my decision to travel to a developing nation to volunteer. So, here I am, twenty two years old, graduated from college, and packing my hiking backpack. No looking back now, only watching my current moments, my current steps. Life is no longer surreal. It is a diving board of adventures, and I am about to submerge myself! I hope to keep my friends and family(y'all) updated through this blog, with my stories and pictures. In advance, please pardon the grammatical errors and comments that may show my inner weaknesses, but most of all, thank you for letting me share these thoughts with you all....