Chronicles of a Cycler Part III

Knackered. After a day spent cycling at least 25 kilometers around the city of Dar es Salaam knackered is the only word for me. Hmm…or perhaps sunburned, sandy, or dirt-streaked? All of the above apply.

But what word can I use to describe the Dar experience? The experience of seeing all different aspects of the city-include the huge variety of housing types, ranging from ultra poor stone huts to huge stone mansions? Or the variety of people, ranging from well-dressed women to scraggly kids playing with tires?

It was a long, hot, and hugely informative day. One that culminated in my squished into the back of a tuk-tuk with our two mountain bikes while another guy I biked with sat up front with the driver.

DO HARD THINGS

My school's theme for this year is “Do Hard Things” and us teachers are alternatively cajoling and encouraging our students during assemblies and homeroom to choose a goal, a hard thing to do for the glory of God. This theme is based on the book by the teenage twins Bret and Alex Harris encouraging teens to start a “rebelution” against the low expectations placed on them.

My students are rising to meet our challenge. One student has decided to build a Tanzanian orphanage for his senior service learning project. Another to mentor children out in a village. Some are choosing to heal broken friendships, learn to play the guitar, or earn an “A” in a challenging class.

In my 8th grade homeroom I’ve been inspiring my students by researching together Biblical heroes who did hard things for the glory of God. Sometimes I share stories of kids who have surpassed expectations, like a 17 year old who sailed around the world. Or a five year old who raised 30 thousand dollars for orphans. Then sometimes I have my students encourage each other through writing notes or prayer.

Pushing my students to persevere, to press on to achieve their hard things is exhilarating. This school year promises to see great things accomplished by the kids at HOPAC.

Chronicle One of a Cycler

...Fingers crossed I’ll live to write many more

Now I can meet Dar es Salaam on its own terms. Now I have a bike. Last weekend I bought a UK mountain bike off young Mcfarlane, a Northern Irish student of mine. After taking it out on a main road this afternoon I am so thankful it’s a mountain bike and built for rough riding. The streets are deeply rutted and covered in sandy dirt and frequently I had to veer off the cement to avoid being hit by a rogue dalla dalla [local bus] or construction truck.

This danger added to the charm of my quest to find a Luku station [prepaid electricity for my house]. Like in all cities, I only feel engaged and truly a part of my surroundings if I’m out there on my bike, vulnerable, sweating, but very much in the city. My city experiences are typically rougher than the average American’s as they are mainly in packed third world countries.

Riding through Dar I battled a terrific sea breeze, school children loitering in my path and calling out at me, and the quick stream of traffic zipping past. With the dust blowing in my face and the uncertainty of knowing where I’m headed, I enjoyed my adventure.

I can see why some people are driven to bike across countries or even continents. Usually I have the desire to swim around places, but the lure of cycling is growing on me. My housemates were overjoyed when I acquired my bike, and now they send me off on expeditions to buy electricity or pick up bread at a duku [market stall]. However, they’ve informed me that they’ll be kind when it comes to needing juice, only asking for one or two gallons (ha ha ha).

The pictures here are sites I encountered on my foray into the city. The picture at the top is me with my new housemates.

A note on theft

Theft is more common in Dar and even East Africa as a whole than in Bangladesh. Petty theft, muggings, car jacking, smash and grabs-everyone I meet has a story about it. Tonight my next neighbor, Lydia, can over with her two of her teenagers for a game of Bananagrams (our compound addiction). While were playing she informed me they had been robbed Monday night and our guard was consequently dismissed.

Was he associated with the robbery? Don’t know. We do know he’s the only guard our compound head has a bad feeling about. We also know his buddies tend to hang out with him while he’s on duty-did one of them steal? But no matter who is the thief our guard is responsible since he’s employed to be sure no one on the compound is robbed. Tough for the guard.

This makes me wonder several things. Firstly, Bengalis as a whole are poorer than Tanzanians, so why more theft in Tanzania? Secondly, how safe am I anywhere in Dar, including in my own home with a gated compound?

Africa. East Africa. Tanzania. Dar es Salaam

Looking at the Indian Ocean from one of the many wide windows of my sandstone home I have to remind myself that just across that ocean is my old Bangladeshi home. This panorama strongly contrasts with the blaring music from the bar across the street behind me. Pondering my new home, I sit here on a Friday night after my first full week of teaching in Dar. From my shaded veranda I can glimpse dusty brown feet slip by under the wall surrounding my compound as they pad along the deeply-rutted road.

Dar is as unlike Dhaka in as many ways as it’s similar. Similarities? It has poverty. It has riches. Differences? The two are unseparated to the extreme. Gated mansions are juxtaposed by neighboring shacks. Limousines cruise down streets next to beat up clunkers. Yet how can this be a poor country? People are fat here! In Bangladesh I felt huge, a towering, well-padded giant around the malnourished Bengalis. Here next to beefy African mamas and muscular men I feel like a petite enfant.

While school consumes my life figuring out the apparent contradictions of Dar is secondary. Working from the crack of dawn until late into the day makes swinging in my neighbors’-a friendly family from Tennessee-hammock more appealing then gallivanting around a strange city by myself at night. Especially a city with as many car jackings, muggings, and theft as Dar.

But, the adventurous part of me is reasserting itself and I long to explore. Tomorrow morning-Saturday-I plan on venturing out to find a local bicycle shop an Irish teacher called Mcfarlane tipped me on. I just love living the expat life where random oddities like this happen. Take how yesterday I was informed a great resource on Swahili language and culture is from a co-worker who is Greek but married to a German. Random.*

This brings to a close my first blog from the African continent. Hopefully many more follow…unless one of the many possibilities (or should I say probabilities) of a car accident, tropical disease, or worse happens to me.

Kwa heri [good bye]!

*Another bit of random African trivia. Asante sana, squashed banana” is a direct quote from Rafiki in the “Lion King”. Asante sana means “thank you very much.” Squashed banana must have a deeper meaning, but I’m still searching for it.

Merely Existing in the USA

Well, I've been bouncing around the USA since the end of June, visiting family and churches as I fund raise for my transition to teaching in Tanzania.

It's been a good chunk of time since I've been in a first world country, so why am I not enjoying it as much as people tell me I should be? One teacher I worked with in Bdesh called it "the country where dreams come true." After all, coffee shops are easily accessible, allowing me to choice selections of hot lattes and iced coffees with fancy flavorings. Also, stores have options! It's not about going to buy a soda, it's what flavor? Caffeine free or caffeinated? Choices abound.

Life is too easy in America. My time feels wasted on trivial decisions like, "what should I watch tv tonight" when I spent the past two years without a tv. My time in Bangladesh was more meaningfully spent with all the time wasting activities stripped away. In Bangladesh I volunteered during my free time rather than going to the mall.

On the other hand, catching up with my family and the friends I've been able to see so far has been wonderful. So good. I loved making dirt cups with my little sister, watching my little brother open his birthday presents, and learning how to quilt from my Grandma. That time was not wasted!

Now the count down till I leave for Africa is ticking mentally away in my head. August 11th and I'll finally be in my new home-the land of the "chocolate people".

Amanda's perspective-I Am NOT a Jungle Girl

*Again, this is a guest blog, so these are the views of Amanda and not Elaine.

We started out the morning with a relaxing boat ride over to Taman Negara. We were filled with excitement. Little did I know what would be in store for me that day. We went up steps to the canopy walkway. I was extremely nervous since it involved walking across narrow bridges suspended in the air. Heights are not my thing. The bridges swayed as you walked across. I clung to the ropes that acted as handrails, which was considerably more difficult since I was shaking with fear. I was especially disturbed when I found out that we would do this without a harness. I was proud that despite the Czech man who constantly told me how scared and petrified I looked that I made it through the entire canopy walk and this time, I have pictures to prove it. What I later found out, was that the canopy walk was actually the easy part.

Right after the canopy walk, we stopped at a vine and everyone took a turn trying to climb it. Elaine climbed up the highest. Afterwards she confessed that she just wanted to show up those ballet dancers. I got a turn too, but with my twig arms I didn’t make it very far. I much prefer things that do not involve exercise.

We began trekking up the trail in the rainforest. At first I thought about what a great experience this was going to be. I was walking around in a beautiful, noisy rainforest teeming with life in Asia. After several more sets of stairs, I began to become annoyed. The stairs were so tall, even for me. It became so much work. Later, we had to use the roots of trees as our stairs. When we finally stopped at a scenic viewpoint I felt such relief to know that I was done. Unfortunately, this was not the case, I was informed that actually there was more walking to get to the top, but it was easy and flat and would only take about 10 minutes.

So, we continued on. At the sight of the first set of steps that I was told wouldn’t exist on this part of the trail, I was beside myself. It was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into tears. I was tired and hot. I was so sweaty that I was actually leaning over and ringing my hair out to stop the sweat from dripping down my back. I decided that crying would make me feel better, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to lose any more water than necessary since I had already drank my two water bottles and I was in the process of sweating them all out. Elaine kept telling me it would be worth it when we saw the view at the top. As we arrived at the top, I found a bench and plopped down. I was so relieved. I refused to get up and go to the edge to look at the view. I was disappointed, exhausted and unhappy. I have to say that treacherous hike was so NOT worth it to see that view. I was miserable. All I wanted to do was crawl up in a ball after a hot shower and cry myself to sleep in a nice bed. However, that was not meant to be. I still had to hike back. I took a cold shower under a small trickle of water and passed out for a 3 hour nap on a small, uncomfortable bed with an A/C that was, at best, inefficient. It was not an exciting adventure, nor was it fun. I am glad I did it, but I am sure I will probably never do it again. I was couldn’t wait to head back to KL the next morning. I am NOT jungle girl.

Trekking in Malaysia-Elaine's Perspective

After a couple of days in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Amanda and I headed to Taman Negara National Park, which is the world’s oldest rainforest and a lush, green jungle teeming with life. Our first morning there we left our quaint wooden chalet to breakfast on a floating restaurant. After Amanda watched me drink my morning cuppa joe and she had her morning Coke, we joined our guide in crossing the river on
a long, wooden ferry boat. Once on the other side of the river we trekked up to a canopy walk-ten bridges and 9 tree stands-that Amanda guesstimates was 200 meters long. But with her white face and frequent reminders to me that she was afraid of heights, I guesstimate it felt like 20,000 meters long for my fearful friend.

Afterward our group stopped to a have vine climbing contest. I climbed the highest and showed u the French ballet dancers on our trek.

Next we began the steep descent up a mountain. Up, up, we went, using the tangled root system as stairs. The jungle was so alive! Around us called the tropical birds (mainly hornbills), insects, and silver leaf monkeys. Pouring with sweat from the dense humidity, we made it to the top after only an hour’s climb. The view was priceless. Layer upon layer of vine and tree covered mountains stretched in front of us. The view also encompassed rocky formations before the steep drop into the murky river winding below. I took in the view with satisfaction at completing the difficult climb. Amanda sank on a rock and refused to budge or smile.