For this hatrick field season in Tanzania, I opted for some great kindle reading.  This Much I know is True by Wally Lamb (captivating), Nelson Mandela’s autobiography (still working on it) and Expat Etiquette: Looking Good in Bad Places by Michael Bear and Liz Good.

Expat Etiquette is incredibly appropriate to me, full of both legitimately good advice and tongue-in-cheek words of wisdom, and absolutely hysterical truths about being a westerner abroad in a poor country. These truths, however, might not be funny to most of the general public.

Some of my favorites insights [my reactions in brackets]:

This books is a humble guide to all those who not only want to travel far away and sometimes dangerous lands- for the best and worst of reasons- but also want to do so with a modicum of style. Style defines as “appearing to know what you’re doing even when you have no idea what’s happening around you.” [SO true]

Interacting with the Home Front

1. Embrace technology, but do so with [incredible] patience. Learn to love SIM cards, and switch between them strategically [as all Africans do], depending on competing long-distance calling rates. Teach your parents how to use Skype [thanks, M and D!].

2. Develop an adaptable but consistent response to the question “What do you do?” This should be appropriately self-mocking, and should preempt the assumption that you are, in some way or another, trying to “save the world.” Best to knock down pedestals early and often, before you are expected to actually somehow live up to that kind of nonsense. [Besides, even if you arrive with the actual promising good-intentioned naïve objective of saving the world, you will lose any semblance of that goal after precisely 2.5 weeks in country. If you stay for less than that amount of time, you are a tourist and can maintain bliss]

3. Get used to telling friends that you won’t be able to make their wedding/reunion/birthday/baptism-of-their-first-child. [Public apologies to: LPK, MMM, RKF, MC, JMM, MBH, SM]

The Only Piece of Travel Advice that Really Matters

1.      Sh*t will invariably go wrong. Relax. Do your best to develop a zen-like state of detachment.

On the last piece of advice (which is, in fact, the only piece of travel advice that matters):

I’ve noticed that the longer I stay here, the easier it is to be detached and relaxed. But this adjustment in expectations has both advantages and disadvantages. For the first month or so, highs are very high and lows are very low. Meeting new people and having funny conversations make me joyous, but when things go wrong (which invariably happens), I am crushed like a kid hearing Christmas is cancelled. However, after zen sets in and my expectations drop, I tend not to fully realize the meaningfulness of incredible human experiences here.

Daily challenges dissolve into a way of life, but so does the very uniqueness that makes this place different from home.

That is, until I Skype with my mom and she tells me this story is, in fact, a very cool experience and I should write it down. More on that later.

Hat tip: Mom and Dad.

There is a growing body of criticism of young westerners volunteering abroad in developing countries. Questions a potential volunteer should ask herself: What skills do I have that are actually useful to people in rural Gambia? Who will benefit more from my visit: me or people in rural Gambia? What are the potential detrimental effects (cultural, neo-colonial, organizational) of my visit?

While I don't think most volunteers consider all this, it does seem that the fabricated notion of recent-white-college-grad-saving-African-children (link) is coming under more scrutiny. The desire to travel abroad as a volunteer is driven by good intentions, of course, the desire to do something about poverty, although the something is not clear at all. I fell into this idealistic zeal, as a young volunteer in Senegal eight years ago, and I think I’ve come out of that experience (plus living off-and-on living in Tanzania for the past three years) with a more realistic perspective.

The critical self-reflection, of what each volunteer is actually adding to the local economy, culture and the mission of the NGO, should be applied to the developing country organizations themselves. Does taking on volunteers actually fit into the operating mission of this NGO?

In theory that the idea of volunteer work has potential to be beneficial; free labor of course lowers operating costs of an organization, leaving more money for programming itself. In practice, however, managing foreign volunteers can distract enormously from the goals of an organization. I've seen this happen with several NGOs here in Tanzania, organizations stretch their mission to house, manage and accommodate young foreigners.  Managing the volunteers (who are often young, female and inexperienced) often means finding work for them to do that they are both capable of and that feels fulfilling to these travelers, even if that means that local construction workers actually undo the day work done by the volunteers and redo it every night.

The most common type of volunteer abroad is teaching English, and there are plenty of options out there. While English instruction in and of itself is extremely useful, many volunteers who come to teach English have no teaching experience, no experience teaching English as a foreign language, no experience managing large classrooms and no experience with the local language. I quickly learned in Senegal that I am actually a terrible Senegalese English teacher.

We should ask ourselves important questions: what skills will volunteers will bring to the NGO? Would we be building capacity more by using local Tanzanian staff instead of foreigners for this work? Including the costs of finding work for the volunteers and managing their activities, would it be cheaper to use local staff? Are the volunteers meant to be learners or teachers? Are they treated as such? How much staff should be allocated to managing the volunteers?

In fact, it seems that students, the local community and beneficiaries of these foreign volunteers often view the volunteers as tourists (at best) rather than useful vehicles of skill transfers.  In Arusha, young female volunteers are a hot commodity in the dating market. The Tanzanian men who date them are affectionately known as “Rastitutes” for their supposedly appealing dread locks. There’s a nastier word for the young female volunteer who dates a rastitute, but I’ll keep it clean here.

As many volunteers are often young and inexperienced, they usually need guidance navigating a foreign country. Using NGO staff to manage their experiences can’t the best use of labor, as opposed to managing scholarships for poor students, implementing entrepreneurship training or distributing bed-nets. Donor cash should be held accountable to the mission of the NGO, if not actual measurable development outcomes. Does teaching a British volunteer about Tanzanian food and music fall under the poverty alleviation mission of this NGO?

As a personal note, aside from personal experience as a volunteer in Senegal, witness of mission creep of NGOs to accommodate volunteers in Tanzania, I’m also on the board of directors of a small educational NGO in Minnesota that is considering accepting volunteers in Sub-Saharan Africa. I'm pushing back.

A lot of things in Tanzania are frustratingly inefficient. A lot of things in Tanzania require incredible patience. Turning back on the electricity is not one of these things.

We used up our electricity credit in our work house (likely because I opt to keep the refrigerator on) here in Meatu.  My colleague used the brilliance of M-Pesa to buy another 50,000 Tanzanian shillings of electricity and within twenty-five seconds, the power was back on.

I don’t think a power company in the states could turn the electricity back on within twenty-five hours.

There is a fairly well-established internet literature about the excessive dumping of goods to developing countries mixed with hopeful intentions that falls under the cute acronym SWEDOW. Stuff We Don't Want. Now that I've been back in Tanzania for a couple of days, my bag is lighter after I distributed the stuff I brought from the states to friends who asked for things. Keep in mind that this list of stuff that may be needed is biased by the sample of (well-educated and outdoorsy) folks I mix with here in Tanzania.

Stuff they might want:

1. Smart phones. Especially iPhones. There are 0 authorized Apple stores in Tanzania. A black market certainly exists and second hand smart phones are around, but (probably due to the two-year contract renewals that come with new phones) they are still cheaper in the states. And the connectivity improvement that comes with having a smart phone in a country that mostly lacks landlines, service contracts and cheap computers but does have mobile banking and easy access to phone credit.... is huge.
2. Batteries, of all kinds. Long-lasting and high-quality batteries are also still cheaper in the US. Especially if your dad likes to buy the giant packs of AAAs from Costco.
3. Cords and cables. Also a quality issue. Computer cords and outlets seem to get a lot more element exposure (dust, rain, crummy outlets, playful children) in Tanzania than they do back in the states. I've come bearing two mini USB to USB cords to replace older frayed ones.
4. Tough ziplock bags. Clear plastic bags that actually keep liquid in or keep liquid out. I'm actually still reusing the same ones I brought in 2013.
5. Quality sunglasses. Well, this White-Person-with-Irish-Eyes needs sunglasses. It's not entirely clear if the average Tanzanian requires sun protection, but the dust in the dry season is up the wazoo, so sunglasses that don't break after 4 wears are extremely useful.
6. Good hairbands. The kind that are think enough to hold a big pony tail, don't have that painful metal doodad and don't break after one week. These are priceless.

Things to keep in mind as we navigate the SWEDOW flowchart. Any other suggestions?

A traveler reflects on the conundrum:

I’ve heard people say it’s for the principle—because people always jack up the prices [to tourists] at least 200%.  Even so, the quick buck we save means so much more for their standard of living than it does to us. I’ve also heard people say 'but if you pay full price, then all the prices will slowly go up.'

I am a pretty serious haggler in Tanzania. I've been stewing over this question though, and have several answers to why I do it, none of which is individually sufficient:

1. I actually gain utility by getting more stuff for a cheaper price. Possible.

2. I am indoctrinated. The world of economics has taught (peer-pressured?) me to believe that I gain utility by getting more stuff for a cheaper price. It is certainly true that I would be happier if my rent went down. But how much utility do I really get from acquiring a beautifully designed fabric for $5.50 instead of $6? Slim returns on fifty cents and I'm already skeptical of the notion that utility gains are objective (i.e. I am fully aware that the $1 earns much more utility for the vendor than it does for me). But, hey, I'm supposed to care about maximizing my utility and its still money, right? Feasible.

3. Price inflation externality. Or, "if you pay full price, all the prices will slowly go up." The only time I experienced this was when I went to the most touristy market in Arusha and tried to make a few few vendor friends the day before all my Americans friends arrived in Tanzania. Generally, though, I'm not under the impression that my individual bargaining has that much of an impact on prices. Not extremely likely.

4. Bravado. Real Tanzanians bargain. I speak Swahili. I know the market. I do not want to seem like an ignorant tourist. I'm hate feeling like an outsider. Doing the stuff that Tanzanians do earns me a little bit more respect- not the kind of respect that a boss has by virtue of her position, but the street-cred kind of respect that you have to work for. It's nuanced, never fully attainable and almost frivolous, but it earns me two points in my favor since I'll never get stop being a white spectacle. Highly likely.

hat tips: CJM & MAM

As a precursor to this slightly embarrassing story, let me start by saying that the single thing I miss the most here in Tanzania is my own independence. Although I make my own schedule and have passable Swahili, I am dependent on drivers, field assistants, colleagues and watchmen.  I miss driving on a whim to Wisconsin and taking walks alone at night.  I even miss things that facilitate independence, like maps, online menus and consistent prices. A combination of my stubborn American affinity for individual freedoms and undeserved overconfidence in knowing Tanzanian culture got me into a bit of trouble.

So, to train for Kilimanjaro, I decided to hike part of Mt Meru, in Arusha National Park. A friend of mine from church, Roger, is a guide and said he’d help set me up with a two-day hike. A couple days before the trip, Roger got sick and set me up with his friend John to organize and guide me on this trip. I don’t know the trails or the park, and of course not much information about Meru is online, so John and Roger organized the trip for me. We settled on a (pretty cheap) price because I wanted to carry my own gear.  But of course there are park fees, hut fees and a ranger fee. The ranger is a national park employee wears army gear and carries a gun to protect guests from wildlife.  It is required by the park that a ranger accompany every group hiking Meru.

John and I left Arusha at 9am and took public transport to the Momela gate at Arusha National Park.  We arrived around 10:15 and I waited while he checked into the administrative desk, where we had a booking for our hike and ranger.  I sat down at the tourist picnic tables and waited. By 11, I was getting bored and anxious to start. I had been hoping to hike quickly for the day, go past the hut and gain more elevation in the afternoon before hiking down to sleep.  John said we were still waiting for the ranger and park administration big man said that he was coming. But to me, "he is coming" in Tanzania could mean in five minutes or five hours.

I put on my pack and starting saunter down the trail to explore a bit. Then John comes along and tells me we really should go back to the gate, it’s not safe out here without a ranger. I grudgingly follow him back to the picnic tables where we are greeted by park administration big man who yells at John and I about the dangers of wandering off alone due to aggressive buffalo. I inform him that I looked and did not see any buffalo.

I ask park administration big man when the ranger is coming and he tells me fifteen minutes. I may have rolled my eyes. Eventually, more other tourists show up who are also planning to hike to the same hut. John tells me that we will be joining this group with their ranger and then taking a different ranger on the way down tomorrow. I’m disappointed and tell him that this means I am paying a redundant ranger fee and joining this other group means we’ll have to take their pace for the day. He agrees that it’s not ideal, but doesn’t exactly agree with my comment about “money going straight into the deep pockets of the corrupt park administration” (and as the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize I sound exactly like my dad).

By noon, park administration big man tells me to sign the guest logbook. This seems like progress. I’m skeptical of this entire bureaucratic process, so I don’t take it very seriously. Every time I visit a village administrative office or dispensary for work, I’ve signed one of these administrative guest books. I’ve probably signed fifty guest books. So, just like I do in my study villages, I sign my name as my Swahili name, Tabasam McCarthy. I write a fake address (actually I write that I live on Privet Drive, HP shootout).  And where it asks for my ID number, I draw a line, just as I’ve seen my Tanzanian colleagues do. The following conversation ensues.

Park Administrative Big Man: Where is your passport?
Me: It is locked up safely at home. I don’t hike with my passport.
PABM: You must have your passport. Write down the number here.
Me (In Swahili, trying to be charming): Oh, I don’t know my number because the passport is new! But there’s no problem, you don’t need it here.
PABM (In English, not charmed): To enter this park, it is necessary to inform the officials of your passport number. This is for your own safety. If something dangerous happened in the park, we need your information.
Me (In English, not so charming): So you can do what? Mail a letter to my parents using the Tanzanian post? Right, that will definitely be useful.
PABM (In Swahili, pissed): I don’t like this. I don’t like this. This is not appropriate.

He storms off. I write down an eight-digit number. It is not my passport number. 
Me: There! I wrote down my number. Now let’s go.

PABM: Do you think this is a game? This is the Tanzanian National Parks Authority! This is for your own safety. It is required that you follow the rules of this country because you are a visitor here. When I come to your country, I follow your rules and respect the authority! It is the national park authority who will decide if you can enter the park today, do you want to come to Arusha National Park?? Do you realize the importance of safety information?

By this point I realize that I have crossed a line. A thousand sassy responses are flying through my head, but I want to go hiking.
Me: Yes, I understand.

PABM storms off and is arguing with John and two other guides about my behavior. I only pick up “white person” “game” and “problem.” John then asks me to please sit down on the picnic benches and stay quiet for a little while. I tell him that the other tourists do not have their passports and they encountered no problems. PABM is now yelling into his cell phone. I glare and sit on the insults in my head. It’s 12:45. Then, Roger calls. Apparently PABM called the booking agent, who called Roger.

Roger: Tabasam, what is going on?
Me: This man is on a power trip and we have been waiting for two hours for a ranger! Also, you didn’t tell me that I needed my passport.
Roger: Pole (sorry for the situation), but you need to respect this man. Go write your English name.
Me: That’s it? Why didn’t he just ask me for my English name??
Roger: Because this is serious. I’ll call you back. Bye.

I walk over to the book, watching PABM who is clearly pretending he doesn’t see me, and cross out Tabasam and write Aine Seitz McCarthy. Full passport name. I sit back down.

Finally, PABM gathers all the guides, tourists and myself into a group to tell us that we are about to enter the park and hike to Miriakamba hut, that the ranger will lead us and we have a five hour hike (so, absolutely no new information).  He points to one group and says “you will have a four day trip,” to another group “you will have a three day trip” and then to me and says “ah-een-ay sats will have a two day trip.”

Me: Nice pronunciation, ridiculous authority man. Now you know why I wrote Tabasam. [Just kidding, I didn’t say this.]

The hike finally began and I was distracted by chatting with the other friendly tourists. John cautiously apologized for the situation and encouraged me to be respectful.  Be submissive and bow down to this crazy man on a power trip? Never!

Of course, that was my immediate reaction. But today, I reconsider. He is right that I am a visitor, a guest, in this country.  I’ve been here for long enough that I think I know how the world works.  I don’t.  No Tanzanian would ever get away with that kind of arrogant disregard to official procedure in the states. Was my passport number necessary? I still don’t think so. Did the ranger ever save me from any threatening wildlife? Absolutely not. But frankly, being a rich guest, barely functional in the national language, does not empower me the privilege to override leadership and do whatever I want.

In about a week and a half, eight of friends my friends from the states (a collective mix of college and home friends) will arrive in Tanzania the trek up Mount Kilimanjaro. We're taking a seven day Machame route- theoretically giving ourselves enough time to acclimatize to altitude and really get to know one another.

Two friends have good blog posts on a) why we are might do this and b) how we might prepare.

So far, my training has included playing some pick up football with local kids, walking to my favorite expat cafe for indulgent lunches, floating in the Indian ocean, turning thirty, perfecting my dramatic bargaining skills and playing boules. So... this could be interesting.

Well, surprising to me. Not at all surprising to a Tanzanian.

1. Country music. I tried explaining to a friend of mine how the folks who like country music in the states tend to be some of the folks who don't like Obama, but he could not see any conflict of interest between sweet cowboy tunes and Obamacare. It's a fair criticism of our strange American bipolar political culture.
2. Red Bull. The new coca-cola?
3. Skinny jeans. Considering that some fashions seem a bit behind (e.g. blouses from the eighties and wide-leg men's slacks from the nineties), skinny jeans seem to not have missed a beat getting to Tanzania.
4. Heels. Seriously? You walk down THAT road in THOSE shoes? Wedges or flats would be much more appropriate.
5. Smart phones. I have approximately the same portion of friends with smart phones here in Tanzania as I do in the states.
6. Nairobi. With a quickly growing tech industry, a more bearable climate than Dar es Salaam and a short bus ride north, the Kenyan capital is a hot spot for Tanzanian business.

My Swahili name is Tabasam. My Swahili professor gave me the name two years ago in class. I wasn't exactly the best student, but was very enthusiastic. So of course, when he called on me, I wouldn't know the answer but I was happy to participate anyway.  

Having a Swahili name is awesome. It saves me a lot of trouble of correcting people on pronunciation, which I clearly get enough of in the states (no offense, M&D, a very original spelling). Plus, you can't frown when someone just introduced themselves as smile. It's a great ice breaker before asking for a cold coke or a huge amount of phone credit. It's a little challenging to be taken seriously, though. When I have to (infrequently, thank Mungu) meet with a district administrator or medical officer, its slightly more awkward to say something like this: "I'd like you to write letters of introduction to each of the village executive officers directing them to democratically elect female representatives to participate in a seminar on family planning and community health. And by the way, my name is Smile."

Unless its from a child, I don't respond to mzungu much anymore.  Or Aine, for that matter. I even have a Sukuma (the main tribe of my research district) name too: Wonday. The family planning workers have told their kids (and clearly the neighbor's kids) that my name is Wonday, which they start shouting before I get out of the car. And since the small selection of passanger-mutually-agreed-upon-across-cultural-barriers music includes Akon (What! You guys don't like the dulcet hipster tones Yeasayer and Local Natives??), every time I'm greeted in the village, I get One Day stuck in my head. Sometimes we all just start singing along. Still working on teaching the rest of the chorus to these kids...

In the mean time, I'll pretend that all their lives they've been waiting for, they've been praying for, for the the people to say... WONDAY! WONDAY!

I am back from another supervisory trip to visit the family planning workers in the study villages and amazed that its May 1. Supervisory trips sounds more official than adventures in less-drowsy dramamine and paper chasing across sunflower farms.

We've hit a nice stride, my field assistant, our district family planning trainer and myself. Having visited eight villages three times with three workers each, and had more-or-less the same discussions about how to fill out the questionnaires, we are on the same page. Kama kawaida. Or, as usual. It's basically reminiscent of the 8th day of a boundary waters canoeing trip. My chaco tan agrees.

We decide at the same time that a certain beans-and-rice cafe is clearly not up to sanitary par, and silently coordinate our sassy disapproving departure. There's not much communication, either, when we all get out of the car and move a giant acacia tree off the meager rocky path we're pretending is a road. When its time to distribute payments and get signatures of receipt, we simply say: mvua uniesha. Or, make it rain.

I also seem to have toughened up a bit to fit into the stride. I sleep extremely lightly but can fall asleep anywhere. I woke up yesterday when the lizard in my room ate a spider. I'm fascinated by how refreshed and clean I can feel with only with a bar of soap and 2 liters of cold water. I haven't slept in the same bed for more than a week in a row since February. I'll take this transient pace over the last guest house, where the way to lock the door was by rotating a bent nail in the door frame (it was the nicest place in town at $4/night).  I have more of a "usual spot" bar than I've ever had in my life, every waiter knows what football teams I support and greets me by (my Swahili) name.

My research permit ends in a couple of weeks and I transition into tourist. I'm going to miss this life.