Tanzania: Epilogue

The last night's dinner was lovely - three of us were leaving, and eleven were staying another week. The three of going said a few words to each other volunteer, and then the eleven said something to us three.

Turns out, I was appreciated mainly for being sarcastic, and funny, and calling shit "shit" when it was needed. I was also given what I think of as a blessing... told that Meggie and I are seekers, and for seekers, the journey and the experience are often the whole purpose, not the destination. I was admired for being in a marriage that "allowed" me to travel alone, to complete my heart's calling, that it was ok it was not John's heart's calling. Meggie and I were solemnly toasted as a model of a beautiful friendship, a model others said they're going to strive to emulate.

We were up in the dark Friday morning - but Mamatony was too, with a little green onion omelette and toast for our journey. This time, we drove all the way to Dar in one push - stopping only for lunch, and for more "surprise!" experiences with public toilets. (You never know what you're going to get, but I learned one thing - check the faucet first, see if there's running water. It's just good to know before you see what the stall has to offer.)

We got to Dar in the dark, and went to one of those food-court strip-mall places that you see and read about it in the developing world. Attached or near a shopping mall, they're bad food in a safe setting, they're places the middle class socializes with itself, and shows off as members of the middle class. Meggie and I had burgers - she had beef, but I wasn't quite ready to let go of the flavors of coastal Tanzania, and had a chicken tikka masala burger. I tried to get a photo of the sign across the street - we make fun in America of "any excuse for a sale" but this was pretty well on par:

(That's "Pay only 80% during Eid!" I think 20% off is smarter than pay 80%, but there must be a learning curve up to American standards of marketing.)

We stayed at the same hotel from two weeks earlier; this time, we comfortably strolled around the market area, got an ice cream, had a glass of wine at the oceanfront restaurant and felt perfectly at ease with the currency, the people, the music. This time we knew to expect a Ramadan party all night, and put in ear plugs. And oh - the shower. The long, hot shower. To be honest, I showered first, and Meggie said, "How'd it feel!?" And I said, "Just OK. That shower was getting the grime off. Tomorrow's shower will be one I can enjoy."

(Me after 6 days without even attempting a hair wash, and just a couple half-bag half-warm sun showers from the safari in Ruaha, up through the last week. My hair was so fantastically matted, I could shape it into any style.)

The next day was Saturday, and all flights leave Dar for Europe at night - so we spent the day shopping, buying trinkets and thank you gifts for our supporters, trying some candy and Saudi Arabian dates. We learned a new tradition from a volunteer... when people leave, don't wave. Don't say goodbye. Dance them off, and then you can dance them home again when they return. So we danced off the first of us to leave (she sent this ridiculous picture later, and note I am still snug as a bug in a rug in my hiking boots:)

And then we went for an early dinner. Note the Sprite - I'm considering it medicine still, at this point.

And after a long, dusty trip to the airport, after buying Cuban cigars for John at the duty-free, we got to our waiting area at the airport - where the plane was late, there were no updates announced, and only Meggie's French managed to get us an explanation from the Swiss Air steward! We took off about an hour late, first for Nairobi and then for Zurich. One last photo at the airport....

And then we slept - sort of - but flew in relative silence. The guy in front of us puked the whole flight. The woman in the aisle over had malaria and was cutting her trip short.

Arriving in Zurich, our lateness meant Meggie had to run to catch her plane to Paris. I was to have my two nights in Zurich... and realized I had no idea how to get to my hotel, where it was in the city's districts (beyond an address), or how to use public transit. We squeezed hands and I shrugged and laughed, "I 'm sure I can figure it out!" Calmest I've ever been. I mean, there were clean toilets and drinking fountains I could use. How bad could it be? Meggie provided me with a few French phrases to use, and I wandered through customs (they thought it was very odd that I was staying in Zurich under 48 hours) and then up to an information booth. I got some Swiss Francs, I brushed my teeth, and I left the airport, determined not to take a taxi but to figure out the buses and trains, to get to Hotel St. Georges on my own, and ate my very last nutrition bar. 

It took three hours to do it - and should have taken about 40 minutes - but I got there. Zurich on a Sunday morning, with the church bells vibrating my skull, and hardly a person out, with all the shops closed, was as other-wordly as a Tanzanian dirt path. My room was miraculously ready for an early check-in. I opened my third floor window. I looked out on this:

I took a long, long shower and put on a podcast of The Splendid Table. Then I headed out to see Lake Zurich with the Sunday revelers. 

It's all in the journey. 

July 24, Pommern: What about the rose?

So that was the thorn of the day (see post below). But what about the rose?

First, let me say that when I get scared or vulnerable, as you might have, ahem, noticed... I get angry.

When Meggie gets scared or vulnerable, she cries.

We left the long 100-minute class and I stomped home ranting, with an arm around her, as she sobbed. "That isn't how you teach! They're failing those kids!" As an educator, as a Master's degree holding teacher with a lifelong passion for the spirit of learning and connecting with students, that day broke her.

And yet, at lunch, we got our afternoon assignments. I was to work on the septic tank. And Meggie was back to the secondary school - to teach Zumba for afternoon PE Class. They've never taken it, much less heard of it, before - but Edward has a desire for his people to learn about physical exercise and the benefit of using your body well, and often, in pursuit of health and heart conditioning.

The plan was to teach girls first for 30 minutes, then boys. But really, friends, don't plan things in Africa. Consider everything a loose suggestion.

It ended up being 45 minutes with the girls, and then a slapdash basketball/soccer/kickball session with the boys. And those 45 minutes started almost 30 minutes late because we needed a generator. Then an adapter. Then a second one for the iPod. Then petrol for the generator. Then a cord from a closet. Then, and then, and then.

But with pain in her heart from earlier, and fear in her eyes, I plunked myself down in front of Teacher Meggie - in my clodhopper hiking boots and stretchy gray skirt - in the middle of her Zumba class in the reading room. (The reading room is attached to the library; neither has seats or desks.) The reading room is a cement room, labeled that way. I helped scrawl on the chalkboard:

And with absolutely no idea how this was going to go, or if she'd be laughed out of the room, she began.

The videos we have are NOT from that first, amazing, magical class. The girls begged Meggie to come back every day - so she did, almost every single afternoon we remained in Pommern. We eventually felt comfortable, as did the girls, with a bit of filming...

And every day we had class, someone part of Global Volunteers would claim Meggie's Zumba as their rose of the day.

The only video I am in is found here; Blogger has kept me foiled for an hour trying to upload the one I'm in - it just won't have it. So click here for that one; the other three are below!

And then the only girl who agreed to wear track pants rather than her school skirt begged to dance to Shakira's "This Time For Africa" - AGAIN.

Meggie said she could teach it, instead. And how my heart soared to run the iPhone camera here and watch her teach it - and there's Meggie in the background, dancing in her own place, now a student of these girls.

True Story

Here I am, downtown, headed back to my car, on a recent Sunday - a famous Portland "sunbreak" in progress - and so the rays are reflecting energetically off the wet pavement, the people are smiling from their Sunday benedictions. It's only mid-morning so we have the day ahead of us to be useful, productive, goal-oriented. I wait patiently for the crosswalk signal. There's a man about my age on the other side, also waiting patiently. He's Indian-American, perfectly normal and well-groomed*, and he smiles at me, and looks away. I smile and look away. We wait for the walk signal. (*I point this out because hey, downtown Portland on a Sunday morning? There are plenty of unstable or homeless or still-drunk or plain ol' crazy people out and about. This is just a neighborly-seeming, regular dude.)

Just as we pass each other in the crosswalk he flings his arms wide and gestures loosely from my head to my toes, and says, "Beautiful! Such a beautiful woman!" and keeps walking, and doesn't look back. It burst forth from him; he says it in a way that he just HAD to tell me he thought I was beautiful. It couldn't remain unsaid, and he wanted nothing for it - nothing but to say it and move along with his day.

Do I think I'm particularly beautiful, especially worth such a joyous outburst? No, that's not why I'm sharing this with you, of course. I'm sharing it because I wonder what could happen this week if I'm compelled to share a loud, brash, big, silly compliment with someone - especially someone I don't know well, or at all - and what if I go ahead and do it? Will you do it with me, and tell me about it? Maybe it'll motivate me out of my straight-laced box and I'll be ready when I see someone do something nice, dance something beautifully, wear something crazy-unique, say something really funny in a public place. I'll be ready to shout out to them that they are wonderful! And then I'll share about it here, too.

ESP, baby.

Remember when I discovered I could read John's mind a couple weeks ago? (Here.)

Turns out, he can read mine too!

For context: this is a guy who has never heard of The Real World. Who couldn't pick Taylor Swift out of a line-up. Who wouldn't know TMZ from Perez Hilton and doesn't want to. Pop culture, as defined by the masses, is not for him - though he has his own popular culture, to be sure.

I wanted to tell him about a funny Zumba dance we're doing that makes us laugh, and dance hard, to be silly and sweaty and fantastic. But the moment I said, "Hey babe, have you seen that YouTube of that one song?" the lyrics fell out of my head and I couldn't remember how to sing the song or describe the video to him.

We were walking down a flight of stairs, and we got to the bottom, in silence, and he then goes, "Is it that one that goes, 'girl look at that body'?"

YES! It is! (Important to note: the video is super lame, and our Zumba dance is way better.)

But the best thing is that He Can Read My Mind. With his one piece of pop culture! Cool!

Play It Again, Sam

So the Groupon that led me to the hip-hop class a few posts down led me, tonight, in even deeper. It led me into a Tease N Tone class. Known by some as stripperobics. Imagine Pussycat Dolls style moves - mostly MTV dancin' with a tiny bit of burlesque thrown in.

The class was 30 minutes of cardio - tough cardio - followed by 30 minutes of learning less than a minute of a choreographed dance, 8-count by 8-count, just like in the dance classes you took as a kid.

As we counted in, over and over, on the intro of the hip-hop song, the singer announced herself as the beats ramped up. "Nicki. Minaj." in a bad-ass voice, followed by the announcement of her guest singer, "JUUUUUUUUSTIIIIIIIN!"

Three, four, five times. As we learned each new chunk of counts, 4 or 8, I was thinking, when is Justin Timberlake going to start singing? Nicki keeps announcing him.

Oops. You guessed it.

Justin Bieber.

Another silver lining

Today I took a hip-hop class and watch out world! I am terrible!

Well, that's not exactly true, but I was pretty anxious - it has been 18 years since I took a formal dance class - and I was pretty intimidated by the "beginner" class participants. What if I taken the beginner-intermediate class!? I may have had to dismiss myself!

But while the choreography was challenging, and my memory for eight-counts could use a little work, the one place I was totally successful was in general fitness. I was sweating. I was panting a little. But I could have gone another hour - and I made it through all of the sanctioned warm-up push-ups and crunches, plus the drop-it-like-it's-hot squats that were part of our routine, over and over again.

So, first, I've checked off the "try something new" box for the month - 'cause hey, if it's been 18 years since I did this, we can all agree this is "new" to me as an adult.

And second, the silver lining to spending one's youth off the court, outside the track, sidelining at the game and passing on weight room is that at age 31, I can genuinely say I'm in the best shape of my life, and I don't have to lament that what was possible in my energetic youth is now gone (Big Macs and marathons!). Heck, I can save that certain lamentation for my next decade! Ha!