trapped

My experience in Arusha, for the past 3 months, has been difficult. 

The thing that has come most easily:  teaching four year olds

The thing I am still trying to find:  community

I decided, upon arriving in Arusha, that I wanted to find a community outside of my school community.  I have found this much more difficult here than in other places I have lived abroad because the Arusha community tends to run in tight circles, having to almost unnaturally force your way in.  These tight-knit communities are an understandable reaction to the constant turnover of volunteers and travelers on safari that blow through town on a weekly basis.

Going out in Arusha can be tricky.  Whenever plans are made, and a bunch of us go out, I find myself wandering away from my mzungu friends because I am frankly embarrassed to be with such a large group of mzungus (white people).  There are clear assumptions made about me as a white person living in Africa, made by Africans, that are difficult enough to combat and side step the effects of these assumptions.  Butto arrive with a whole group of us?  I might as well wave my white flag (no pun intended).  Common assumptions about the Whities include:

-they are entitled to our money

-we don’t mind having our personal space and right-not-to-be-touched violated often

-we make better babies (literally told to me)

-we can take these poor African men away to a better life

-they are entitled to our money

A co-worker once told me:  The men that want to talk to you are not the men you want to talk to.  What a terrible irony.  Notice I’m only addressing socializing with men.  The community of Tanzanian women is actually very tight and can be quite difficult to break into.  But don’t worry, I’ve been working on it.

Now let’s talk about standards of beauty.  I’m just going to say it- I am a white girl trapped in an African woman’s body.  The men LOVE it here.  I had one guy tell me I looked just like his wife.  Yep- she’s African.  The men went nuts when I was in Zanzibar and now they’re absolutely crazy here as well.  The women I know that have thicker bodies here get FAR more attention than our skinnier friends.  It just blows my mind how women traditionally seen as a beacon of beauty in the states aren’t looked at twice here because, frankly, they don’t enough meat on their bones.

Now, with all of this local attention, you might be wondering what I’m doing about it. Even though I love to “shop locally,” I have not met anyone that meets standard.  There is a statistic floating around the expat community of how many men would meet “westernized women’s” standards like: faithful, honest, doesn’t text 20 times a day, not jealous.  They say that one percent of the local men have these qualities.  When someone finds a good man from Arusha they are even referred to a part of “The One Percent.”  So, there you go.  The likelihood of finding love here is most likely… one percent.

Feels Like Home To Me

I've been home (the US) for a week after being abroad for 14 months.

First meal:  In an airport restaurant.  Ordered nachos with extra guacamole on the side.  Surprised that the guacamole wasn't avocado, but just green mush.  Gross.  Meal came within 5 minutes of ordering it and the bill came 2 minutes after I finished eating.  All of it happened so fast, I wondered if it had happened at all.  Holy crap, American service.  Take a chill pill.

The following meals:  I overate at each and every one.  I have been uncomfortably full since I stepped back in the states.  So, in a truly American way, eating has become much more of a recreational activity than a survival mechanism.

First shopping experience:  First of all, Americans forget that shopping is really a complete sensory experience.  Over time, our senses get used to this overstimulation and it becomes an everyday experience.  But for the out-of-touch, it is very overwhelming.  The smell of perfume, the light pop music playing from invisible speakers, all clothes easily displayed within reach, the comforting lighting.  I would have been happy just walking around, singing to American music and touching all of the soft clothing.  Everything was so visually appealing.  Good job, Mall Design People.  I was successfully lulled into a shopping daze.

Things I am constantly surprised about since being back:

• Everything and everyone smells good.  All of the time.
• Everything is so orderly.  People stand in lines.  Cars stay in their lanes and drive the proper way.
• Food choices.  Oh, how I missed you, Salad Dressing Section.
• Music I can sing along to playing in public places.  Which I have done.  Quite loudly.
• How ABSURD commercials are (TV and radio).
• The ease at which I can order things and get EXACTLY what I want.
• How well I sleep on comfortable mattresses.  And how common they are.

During my last few weeks in Zanzibar, I was definitely ready to go home.  By "home", at the time, I was just thinking about the US in general.  But just having arrived in Atlanta a few hours ago, I realized the "home" I fantasized about was, actually, Atlanta.  Interesting how I identify myself with a place called "home" even though nothing I own is here except the vast majority of my friends.  This is the place I found myself as an adult in the "real world."  This is where I learned how to pay rent on time, go to work when I didn't want to, take part in community beerfests and be so familiar with a place I can go on autopilot after being away for over a year.  Abroad, when asked where I was from, I told people that I grew up in Miami, went to college in Connecticut and taught in Atlanta.  Yes, I said all of that because I identify strongly with all 3 places.  But it is Atlanta that feels like coming home to an old, familiar friend.  

Cats, Trash and Cell phones

Zanzibaris believe that dogs are one of the dirtiest animals alive.  Therefore, unlike Mendoza, there are no stray dog issues.  The island is over-run by cats.  So since I get to be choosy, I only pet the really cute kittens.  These cats feed off of generous locals as well as the trash.  

Let's talk about the trash situation here.  There is a very poorly run sanitation system on the island and a strong culture of littering, which grates on the nerves of anyone born and raised outside of Zanzibar.  Growing up, Americans are very clearly taught "littering is bad."  Here, it is normal.  I do believe that it started as a harmless tradition of throwing biodegradable food, like a banana peel, on the ground.  But as consumerism and globalization has impacted this small island, candy wrappers and plastic bags get tossed on the street next to the banana peel.  Even when I put out the trash, I pay someone to collect it and toss it somewhere.  I'm not sure where that might be, seeing that I only know of exactly ONE dumpster on this island.  It's possible it is toted about 100 feet down the road to the trash/rock heap that is also home to the neighborhood cat family (see picture below).  All I know is that this trash issue becomes an eye sore for what is naturally a magnificent paradise.

So let's talk about cell phone culture.  Cell phones, compared to the US, are a relatively new commodity here.  So they're still figuring out how this instant communication fits into their relaxed way of life (more later on how the relaxed environment plays a huge part in the work environment).  Somehow, between the deals anyone can get on extra texting and phone call minutes and the fact that no one seems to have much to do during the day, texting and calling people "just to say hi" many times a week is considered normal.  And when one does not respond to all 12 calls/texts in the last week, there is questioning of how much that person values the friendship.  As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Zanzibaris LOVE their greetings.  Well, they also love them on text!  Do you know how many texts it requires to have this greeting back-and-forth!?!?  Here is a typical greetings text translated into English:

Zanzibari:  Any news?

Me:  No news.

Zanzibari: Anything the matter?  (Not considered negative here.  It's standard to ask.)

Me: Everything's fine.

Zanzibar:  How're things?

Me:  Cool.

Zanzibari:  How's work?

Me:  Good.

Zanzibari:  How's Rose (my roommate)?

Me:  She's fine.

Zanzibari:  How's it here (literal translation)?

Me:  It's good.

Phew!  Glad we communicated.

Power

Power (the electrical kind) is optional in Zanzibar.  Maybe unreliable is a better word.  The government has daily blackout periods at fairly inconsistent times and durations.  Whenever the power goes out, anyone that has been here for over a year has a story about the time Zanzibar lost power for over 3 months.  Without warning.  Makes you thankful for yet another thing a first world country can provide.  Lately, though, we had been getting less and less blackout periods, which clearly spoiled us.  So when I attended ZIFF (Zanzibar International Film Festival) which attracts thousands to the island each year to attend, we were blissfully watching the opening movie, when in the climax of the movie, the power shut off.  Typical Zanzibar.  If that happened in the states, people would be hooting and hollering, clapping, jeering, demanding for their money back for sure.  Here, the crowd just quietly waited for it to come back on.  Whenever THAT was going to happen.  We gave it half an hour and left, never seeing the end of the movie.

Another issue Zanzibar has with power is the strange dynamic between the locals to the foreigners.  Tourism is not huge in Zanzibar yet, as it still remains a bit of a world secret as such a unique paradise.  But still, there is a significant tourism industry here and the locals have adapted their behaviors to what how they believe a foreigner should be treated.  This can vary from a friendly basic conversation about where I'm from or what I'm doing here to very blunt come ons.  All of these behaviors go under the umbrella of "welcoming" the mzungu. 

A mzungu in Zanzibar is assumed to have money.  Dating a mzungu, I've been told many times, is seen by many men as better than dating a local.  The mzungu women are unreasonably put on a pedastal to this ridiculous height so us women have to make up stories about "my husband wouldn't be very happy if he saw you talking to me."  Not much else will get these men away.  I have strengthened my skill of being really upfront, far beyond what would be considered polite in the states, to get my point across to these men.

"Can I have your phone number?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to have it."

or

"I really, really like you."

"I don't want a boyfriend."

"Why?"

"Because I don't.  I don't need to give you an answer."

"But you can change your mind."

"No, I won't.  I feel uncomfortable being your friend.  Please don't call me anymore."

These interactions seem very harsh, but they are absolutely necessary.  Men and women, here, are not friends.  That is a foreign concept to them.  So saying the classic Let's just be friends line just has the opposite effect.

My roommate, Rose, and I even went to a local restaurant today for a quick bite.  Within 2 minutes of sitting down, 5 men, one-by-one, came to our table to sit down, absolutely uninvited.  The first two plainly stared at us until the next couple sat down and started a conversation.  But it was obvious that the attention we were getting had to do with this idea that mzungu women are better to be with.  It is a sad power dynamic that makes me on edge and a little bit cranky.

I sound a bit jaded with the local men because I am.  They are quick to start a conversation, quick to fall in love and not too easy to reject.  Being on the defense all of the time, unfortunately, takes its toll.  

On a lighter note, I have bought my ticket to the United States on Aug. 8 and will be return to Arusha, Tanzania to teach at St. Constantine's International School on Aug 25 for two years!  This decision was made  because of the two things I know most at this moment:

1- I need to earn real money.

2- I don't want to teach in the states any time soon.

So, Arusha, Tanzania, here I come!  Just a little background, Arusha is the closest city to the Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater, both of which are stunning.  The Lion King was solely based on the Serengeti.  Here are some pictures from Google of the Serengeti:

Is the Lion King theme song playing in your head?  Because it's playing in mine.

Chaos

I have a new roommate who has revolutionized my experience here in Zanzibar.  I met her when she arrived (we found each other on a small Zanzibar listserv for expats).  As she described her first reactions to Zanzibar, I was reminded of how confused I also was getting here.  She describes walking off the ferry and onto the street into chaos and an informal system that is just not logical to the Westernized Mind.  She says she said to herself, This is a street, Rose.  A street.  to find anything familiar.  That's how foreign the culture here can feel.  Different language (not latin based at all, so it is difficult to find similar words), different customs, an importance on politeness (but you have to figure out what is actually considered polite) and a whole lot of strangers saying they want to help you when you're not sure who's actually on your side.  To the untrained eye, the streets are chaotic.  Cars beeping, bike bells dinging, men yelling out greetings, venders trying to sell to the mzungus (foreigners).

When Rose arrived (just last week), I realized that I had started to see some order in this madness.  The actual act of walking down the street involves my attention to be in a few places at once.  I must look down to make sure I don't trip on stray trash or rocks (there is no trash system here except for people to dump their trash in unofficially designated trash spots).  I must pay attention to where I am turning because I WILL get lost in the tangled mess of the Stone Town streets and alleys if I don't.  Then there are the men.  They like to have what I like to call The Greet-Off.  This is when they shout one of about 20 different greetings that exist in Swahili (I know about 4) and wait for the appropriate response.  If I get it, they will continue presenting more greetings until the mzungu is stumped and cannot answer anymore.  This feels much more like a test than a welcome to the country.

Speaking of chaos, Rose and I ventured to the most turbulent, chaotic place in Zanzibar- the Darajhani Market- to buy some much needed vegetables.  The scene is just like I described above without any alley ways, 10 times more people per square inch and everyone is selling something to me. In Swahili.  Rose and I had just learned our numbers in Swahili that morning, and learned how to ask how much something costs, so we decided to try using it.  The conclusion was we needed more practice.  When our landlord found out we had learned our numbers in Swahili, she had us counting for anyone within shouting distance.

Yesterday, Rose and I went to yoga in ancient ruins

and this morning, we woke up early and worked out on the beach with this group of crazy Zanzibaris called.... the Obama Group. Apparently, they got their fancy name from an inspirational speak Obama gave once.  Who knows.  Anyway, it was such a great experience, we promised to return.  

By the way, did I mention they love Obama here?  When I say I'm from the United States, they get excited and say, Obamaland!  I've now cut the interaction shorter and just claim "Obamaland" as my country.  Thank God I wasn't here when Bush was president.

Still here- Day 9

I met an angel today.  She showed me her apartment, fed me and, most importantly, gave me hope.  I have been struggling with feeling isolated and lonely since I've gotten here.  My "free accommodation" is, indeed, free but is quite far from the city center (Stone Town), where almost everything happens.  It takes quite a bit of effort and money to get to Stone Town when I want to be connected to civilization.  So today I decided to put on my Big Girl Panties and look for an apartment in town.  Everything is so informal in Zanzibar, barely any information or advertising is online- finding a place to live is almost purely by word of mouth.  You need to know someone who knows someone who knows someone who might still be looking for someone to rent an apartment.  Tricky when you don't know anyone.

So, long story short, I was given a phone number of an American named Amanda.  She is my angel.  I called her to see her apartment to possibly rent it.  Then, as I shared my pitiful story of the loneliness and isolation, she began to connect me to this community.  She signed me up to listservs and gave me phone numbers.  She even took me to her boyfriend's cousin's place to see an available apartment and translated and negotiated in Swahili on my behalf.  We ended up spending close to 7 hours together today.

We ended this whirlwind-of-a-day at a seaside garden watching a breathtaking sunset with about 20 different street venders selling food on set up tables.  As the sun went down. each table put up their own gas lamp which created this magical feel across the garden.  I ate octopus, freshly caught shrimp and whitefish.  Super delicious.  Super cheap.  And this is the best part- this event happens every night.  We chatted for over an hour, and sat amongst the Zanzibar community watching the sunset and the boats come in to dock.

This story may seem quite trivial to you, but it has shifted the direction my Zanzibar Experience is going in.  I was very bored, lonely and frustrated this past week.  This was my daily schedule:

6:30:  Start talking myself into waking up because, frankly, I hadn't slept well AGAIN.
6:45-7:15:  Choose from 3 available outfits that are weather appropriate (Ever hear of Africa hot?  Exactly...) and respectful to the prominent Islamic culture (covers my shoulders and knees) and pound coffee and a peanutbutter sandwich.
7:15-7:45:  Wait for the phone call telling us that the school bus is ready to pick us up.
7:45-8:30:  Ride to school with 20 children smushed into a 7 passenger van.
Side note:  When one of the teachers told me I would be riding to and from school in a bus crammed full of children, I wanted to cry.  American children are little hellions on buses.  They yell, they fight, they curse and yell some more.  However, these beautiful little African children are actually quite pleasant on the bus.  Every morning, I hoist myself onto that bus and find a place to sit by grabbing a small child and putting them on my lap.  They lay against me and, with the same glazed morning-eyes I have, we wake up quietly the rest of the ride.

8:30-2:00:  An average school day
2:00-2:30:  Bus ride home (a little more lively, but still quite enjoyable)

Then... I spent the rest of the day SITTING with my roommates in my living room until I go to sleep.  I wanted to claw my eyes out.  Unfortunately, living in a free accommodation far from the city and living a frugal lifestyle means a lot of cereal and sandwiches and A LOT of sitting on your computer or reading a book.  Doing this 5 days a week for 7-8 hours an evening makes me think water torture might look like fun.

So meeting my angel today has given me hope that I can find a place in this little island community.

Karibu Zanzibar (Welcome to Zanzibar)

Arrived in Zanzibar yesterday.  I am currently sittin gin the Africa Hotel because 1- I needed to get out of the hotel after a long nap and 2- after being toted around a city full of a foreign language, I am ready to be around some English.  It is interesting- the people of Zanzibar are not very friendly to meeting people who do not speak Swahili.  I am sure it is partly because they do not speak any Englisah (or very little), but I remember in Mendoza that they would a tleast make the attempt to comunicate because everyone was seen as family and possib lty because they are expecting you to know some Spanish.  As I live here, I will see if I become more accepted and spoken to.

Since my departure from Mendoza, I have felt a relative calmness and assurance that everythign will work out just fine.  I think this is, in part, from my extensive experience with the back packers coming through Monkey Hostel showing me that they have journied around the world and so can I.

I had a tearful goodbye with my family from the hostel, still missing their constant presence in my daily life.  Their constant harassment on Facbeook shows me the feel the same.  I find it takes a little while to truly let go of the previous place I lived and to conpletely be present in the place I live now.  I even talk about both Cusco and Mendoza to people I meet here.  I am sure the mental comparisons and memories will fade as I have new experiences, new memories and form new connections.  I think there is a natural process that bridges someone from old to new experiences, similar to a DJ blending from one song seemlessly to the next without the abrupt jolt of silence.  I guess that would be the equivalent of culture shock.

I spent the next two days with my friend Cameron in Buenos Aires exploring the city, getting last-minute essentials and nursing a terrible hangover after a.bit.too.festive first night in BA.  I blame it on the Tango.  Cameron was a great host and the perfect person to see me off.  This was my first journey I was to complete ALL ON MY OWN.

I spent the next 20 hours on planes, eating large meals on airplanes and waiting in airports.  When I arrived in Dar Es Salaam, I realized that I had NO cash on me!  I quickly found that all TWO cash machines at the airport were broken and was instructed to pay my visa tax when I landed in Zanzibar.  Well, to my luck, the ONE cash machine in Zanzibar was also broken.  A note was written on my visa and my pássport was confiscated until I was able to pay the fee.  As I gathered my cumbersome backpack, I was praying to the Good Kharma Gods that my ride (the Headmaster of my new school) has arrived or will arrive.  I had not had any communication with her for quite a few days.  Well, to my good fortune she and her husband were there waiting for me and were gracious enough to lend me the money to retrieve my visa.  Phew.  Crisis averted.

I was wisked away to their hotel ( yes, the one they owned) I was to be staying at for the next few nights because my room-to-be was not clean yet.  On the ride there, I found they striggled  bit with English and didn't have the benefit of having similar between our two languages, like English and Spanish.
I need to interupt this to meantion that I am fully apprecitaing sitting on a gracefully decorated balcony sipping tasteful wine.  As Cameron said, the one thing we can count on taking away from Argentina is that fact that we will be wine snobs from now on.  I am listing to dark, invisible waves crash to the shore and nondescript, but perfect for the environment, instrumental music in the background.  My table is only lit by candlelight.  Am I in heaven?

To continue, when we stopped the hotel, I dropped my stuff, took a shower to wash off the Travel Grime and went to dinner at their suggested restaurant- chinese food.  Pretty good, might I add.  Towards the end of dinner, as I became increasingly delirious, I was brought back to the hotel and fell into a deep sleep.  I was woken up by beautiful singing at 4 AM.  A nearby mosk was chanting their morning prayers.  Being amongst such a beautifully religious culture is, honestly, refreshing. Traditions that a population so whole-heartedly believe in, they are willing to cover up almost their entire bodies (which, might I add, is a mysteriously seductive way to dress) amd get up at the godawful time of 4 AM to show their devotion to their faith.  If I am woken up every morning by a population giving thanks and  having faith, I think I can get used to this.

After much difficulty getting back to sleep (not fun), I woke up tired once more.  I was made breakfast by the receptionist.  Might I add, I haven't gone hungry since I left Buenos Aires.  I was fed 3 full meals on my flights and fed consistantly since I have arrived on this island.  At breakfast, the receptionist attempted (at my request) to teach me some Swahili.  Nothing stuck after 5 seconds of learning it.  Literally nothing.  After breakfast, I was, once again, wisked away to do paperwork for my work visa.  While waiting in the tour agency office that my boss and her husband also own (yes- they own a school, hotel and tour agency), I found the internet was down... over the entire island.  Apparently, electricity and internet can occassionally go down over the entire island.  Keep the candles handy!

Next, I needed to take my photo for the visa.  I was taken to a very local and very busy market.  On the way, I realized that it will take me a little while to get used to being driven on the left side of the road.  Every ounce of navigation intuition that I own is being challenged as danger signals flash in my brain every 5 seconds.
At the market, I found that I felt a little uncomfortable.  The culture on Zanzibar Island is the first culture that is truly foreign to me.  It is not the dress or the language that brings in the feeling (even though it does frustrate me that I have NO idea what people are saying to me or about me), it is the manner men call out to me.  Will responding warrant further harassment?  Is ignorning them rude?  I usually know the appropriate response...   Also, as I am toted around from the photo studio to a booth selling sheets, people address my new boss but never me.  I am treated as if I am not even there except for my new boss.  I am hoping this is somehow cultural and not a sign of rudeness.  Keeping an open mind.

I am then driven to the school.  This is what I always envisioned a school to be.  No flourescent lights and sterile hallways.  Everything's a little dirty and a bit imperfect. Students' artwork and projects are displayed everywhere as well as important learning information.  The faded construction paper most things are created with is crudely taped to walls but clearly a symbol that someone was proud of this work, not because someone required that a certain amount of work e put up at certain times.  I come in when lunch is ending, which apprently, was the most hectic part of the day.  With about 15 children eating at a long, plastic-covered picnic table, I wouldn't quite call it hectic, but the cleaning up procedure could use a little improvement.  I was later told about an idea that would pull one of the teachers away from lunch duty and there was concern about there not being enough teachers on duty for lunch.  ind you, there arer 47 children TOTAL in the school and about 7 teachers.  I think I can handle covering that teacher's duties.  I am used to handling over 40 students alone, half of which are considered "handfuls."  My new boss agreed with me.  Oh, how I've missed working with children.

After meeting some of my students I will be teaching for the summer, and possibly the next school year if I choose to stay on, I was taken to eat a traditional Zanzibar lunch.  An informal order-at-the-counter-at-your-own-risk kind of place.  The food, I found, was quite similar to Indian food.  Score.  I was then dropped at the hostel where I, once again, feel into a deep sleep and guiltily slept the day away.

Awaking at night, I had no idea if this town was safe to navigate at night, especially being a woman.  I asked the receptionist, but something got lost in translation and I was left as clueless as before.  He offered to take me to a garden a bit of a walk away which I initially accepted.  After going back to my room, and weighing my options of getting esorted by a local, yet being alone with the stranger, I opted to venture out on my own to this hotel/bar which was noted on multiple websites.  The benefit of going to a known tourist bar is that i know it is relatively safe and there is even a possibility of meeting someone who speaks my language.
I have some questions that I would desparately lke answered.  Right now, all I need is patience to wait to move into this apartment with another teacher to get my questions answered by someone who is in my situation, and not a local.

This place is absolutely magical.  It is feels like the love child of Aladdin and a tropical paradise.  The dirty run-down buildings and small alleyways are part of the charm.  People ride bikes, walk slow and laze around here because, well, life is good.  Hakuna Matata.

Perspective on Problems

A friend recently opened my eyes to the concept of FWPs (First World Problems).  Some of these include a store not having your brand of ketchup, a waitress having to be asked for the bill for it actually to be given over, having to put on your own sheets at a hostel, throwing away your toilet paper instead of flushing it because the sewage system can´t handle anything besides what has exitted your body.  And sometimes, if too much has exitted, it can´t even handle that.  Living in a first world country, it´s easy to forget a much wider perspective of what we have and what we consider "a problem" like a smoking habit, panic attacks and Starbucks closing for a holiday. 

These problems are very real in a first world country, many times being caused by the very dominant work culture of not only identifying with our profession but basing a lot of our self worth on our performance in that profession.  We stress over unimportant things like paperwork and what our boss thinks of us and forget that doing our best and having good intentions should be amongst the highest on our priority list. 

Teaching appears to have such clear priorities, but when you´re in the school environment, for survival your priorities change.  Paperwork, grades, pareent conferences, deadline, deadline, deadline.  How does my principal feel about my performance?  Will my students´parents work with me or against me?  Will I be able to have a work-free weekend or will I, yet again, need to bring work home?  I would find the most enjoyable thing about my weekend is that I can sit outside while grading papers and planning for the next week.  Phew.  Atleast I´ll get a little Vitamin D.  I was worried!  No matter how it´s masked, it´s still work.  I don´t care if another teacher-friend is doing work with me.  It´s still work.  No boundaries and definitely no prioritizing my mental and physical health. 

I am finally able to see the absurdity of my priorities while teaching.  Taking care of everyone and everything over my own health.  Because of this newfound physical and mental health, I have decided to continue along this beautiful path and solely work at my not-so-difficult job at the hostel.  I will not be teaching Engliush in the magical city of Mendoza.  This was quite a big decision: choosing to work a job with very little challenge and very little income.  Up until now, I have always held jobs that were related to my passions.  While sitting at a reception desk isn´t quite a passion of mine, meeting new people and hearing their stories and being changed by their perspectives and cultures certainly is.  Since college, I have preached living by your beliefs.  I have figured out many beliefs to live by but I forgot to include the part about taking care of myself before taking care of others.  I envision the flight attendant miming securing your own mask before assisting another.  So, I am riding the Selfish Train for a while, allowing myself to simply be happy, healthy and to LIVE those beliefs I forgot for so long.

On a lighter note, there is a 3 day wine festival directly in front of my hostel.  God Bless Wine Country.

Men

Our hostel attracts more men than women.  I'm not sure if this is a pattern seen across all backpackers or if it's Mendoza or if it's just our hostel.  All I know, is I am exposed to a wide variety of those from the Male Species: from 19 years old to 40 years old, from married to single, from reserved to wild dancers, from The Nice Guy to The Douchebag.  It's easy to get used to these considerate and genuine dudes.  They are engaging in conversation, open minded and easy to let you guard down around.  So, as the Guest Tides come and go, I find that I am guarded with these different groups of men-boys not according to their own merit or my specific intuition with these individuals, but according to the previous Tide.  This has caused me to have some rude surprises- both positive and negative.

They was an amusing mix of 5 guys with 5 quirky personalities from Australia.  The one common trait they all held was 100% genuineness.  They owned who they were and what they did.  They were fantastic at conversation and were curious about everyone they met.  Each one of them.  People wanted to share their stories with every one of the guys.  Somehow, the most important questions were asked to each person they sparked a conversation with.  The guys somehow intuitively knew what each person found most important.  They also made the most comedic comments without even realizing how amusingly quirky they were.  They really made up quite a traveling family.

              Carl partied the hardest.  He would consume almost everything put in front of him and consequently got in the most trouble.  He was a crazy dancer and quick to smile and laugh.  He put everyone around him at ease with his humor and positive look at life.  He would playfully make fun of people, putting down their guard and, consequently, easily making friends.  It was easy to be yourself around him.  Even with all of these friends and attention, he was still willing to get me a blanket when I needed.
              Mark meant everything he said.  He was usually the tallest in a crowd, but you would never know by his confident stature and altruistic smile. He related very well to people.  Sitting next to him, you know he was listening and watching you and quick to comment and relate.  You knew you mattered when you were with him. 
              Mike was the most inquisitive one.  He made sure his stories related to the people around him. He doesn't realize it, but his unadulterated social and caring personality will allow him to develop into an incredible teacher.  All he needs to do is put as much thought, effort and love into his work as he does to everyone around him.
              Joe saved my life.  He discovered that I was taking an anti-inflammatory instead of birthcontrol (a pharmacist in Cusco fucked up the medication).  I had been taking it for 8 days when he found out.  One of the most selfless individuals I have ever met, he walked with me to the pharmacy and listened to my honest story of why I moved abroad without judgement or interuption.  He made sure I got the correct prescription and we had a quite eventful grocery shopping experience.  I think he was the unintentially funniest out the group.  It seemed his perspective on life was just quite funny.
             And last, Jack who, after moving to Australia from China, was allowed to choose any "normal" name and chose Jack for Jackie Chen.  Hilarious.  He was so full of information (both useful and useless), it was as if it leaked out of him when given the chance.  He would debate with Joe for what seemed for hours, or simplify theories for the more simple-minded in the group (a.k.a. me).  He, like the others, was quick to smile and you really felt the pure warmth from it.  He wasn't the most touchy guy out the group, but when he hugged you, you knew it meant something very real.

These guys were quite a bunch.  From each one, I was told about some big blowout they had recently had with each other.  They all mentioned in some way that they probably wouldn't travel in that specific group again for various reasons.  I came to see them as a family that just spent a bit too much time together.  Without one, the group just wouldn't seem complete.  I'm not sure if I will ever experience such a group again.  I loved living amongst these noisy and messy guys for a fun few days.

Only a couple of days after these guys left, a group of Irish dudes I like to refer to as The Douchebags (as referenced earlier) arrived.  I welcomed them with the same enthusiasm I had for the previous group.  Nevertheless, they were snobby, rude and entirely incapable of having any kind of interesting conversation.  Let down.

The day The Douches left, an animated couple from the US came in.  I got along with them very easily and ended up chatting with the guy into the night, after everyone went to sleep.  We both really opened up and talked about things almost-perfect strangers don't talk about.  It was refreshing to connect with someone on such a level.  I left that conversation with that good empty feeling, like something I've been holding onto for a while was finally allowed to escape. Throughout their 3 days stay here, we spent a good amount of time together.  It's rare to find such people that "click" so easily.  I feel lucky each time this happens.

I am learning to really listen to my intuition and step back a bit when meeting new people.  It can get exhausting, the build up and let down that comes with the Tides.

Impressions

Men in Argentina kiss on the cheek to greet and leave each other, just as men and women would do.  I believe it´s a beautiful thing to see men okay with touching and showing love for each other.  Occassionally, I see a foreigner get kissed on the cheek by another man and it´s obvious that it makes them feel quite uncomfortable.  It´s okay.  It´s one of those good uncomfortable moments that challenges men´s understanding of what it means to be a man.

All of my life, I have prided myself in being able to "get" people.  Watching, analyzing.  I am typically right on my assessment during the first 5 minutes of meeting these people.  But I have come to find that this sixth sense has become inaccurate.  Travelling can really bring out the best and the worst in people.  And I see the change within hours sometimes.  It´s defintely an interesting character study working in such a transiant place.

I am also experiencing being part of this community.  Every morning, I wake up deliciously late and wonder over to my favorite coffee shop.  As I make my way there, the waiters standing outside of the restaurant next door all say hi because they now know my face (and probably my boobs too).  At the cafe, I practice my Spanish with my favorite coffee girl and I make her practice her English. It´s the best $3 I spend on a daily basis.  While sitting outside, drinking my coffee, I now say hi to the waiter that works NEXT DOOR to the coffee shop as he stands outside of his restaurant, waiting to help customers.  I don´t know these pèople besides their faces and place of work, but it would be strange, at this point, to not exchange greetings and smiles.  I love this town.

The Most Difficult Part

In my last post, I said the most difficult part of working at the hostel was washing dishes.  I take it back.  The hardest part of my job is saying goodbye.

Waking Up

We have an influx of women over 50 in the hostel.  The age groups fluctuate from large groups of 19 year olds to certified senior citizens.  With each wave of different age groups comes a different culture and feel in the hostel.  Waking up this morning for my first morning shift, I come down to breakfast and find three of our "more mature" guests already eating.  Two are German, one of which speaks very good English, and a French woman that speaks no other language besides French.  I have been communicating with her purely through miming and pointing. 
I have now been in Mendoza for 16 days and have been working at the hostel for the last 6 days of that.  I am consistently waking up in a great mood and full of energy.  My coffee is ACTUALLY working (sometimes too much).    The most difficult part of my job is washing dishes.  I work with friendly people who constantly remind me that I need to be practicing my Spanish and are happy to practice with me.  My favorite part of the job is getting to know the guests' stories.  They quite quickly blow in through our doors and and just as quickly blow right out to their next adventure.  I especially enjoy the relationships I build.  They change me in little ways.  I have participated in more impromptu dance parties and eaten more meat in one sitting than I ever have in my life.  In other words, life is carefree and easy right now.

About a week ago, I realized that I have struggled with my energy level for years.  Sometimes, you don't realize something's wrong until it becomes right.  I think there are multiple contributors, one of which is the schedule I was required to have with teaching- early mornings and late nights.  I would spend the day constantly trying to elevate my energy level and keep it up.  I would have short spurts of exercising but could never be consistent with it, partly, because of my lack of energy.  It has always been a viscous cycle.  Now, I find I have more than enough energy to be in a great mood all day and exercise.  Honestly, I'm still getting to this new me.  I have been putting up with the energy ups and downs and the subsequent mood swings for, as I said, years.

I named this entry Waking Up for multiple reasons.   Right now, I am waking up to a serene and pleasantly cool Mendoza.  It reminds me of the summers I worked in Maine and woke up early to make beds and vacuum as housekeeping for a resort.  The mornings are crisp and quite magical as the sun and city rises, just as I am.
 I also feel an awakening to new energy and stability.  I am also experiencing a new level of connection with people and a city I haven't felt in a long time.  This is the first time I am living in a foreign country independantly- the only people I know are people I've met here. And it feels pretty damn good.

An explanation

As I keep in touch with people, I find the common complaint is "I want to see more posts on your blog.  We want to know what's happening."  So, I want to come clean.  Since I started blogging, I found other blogs I read about similar experiences I was having were beautifully written.  Unfortunately, the side effect of reading these blogs was not inspiration but a new-found self-consciousness about my own inadequate writing.

So, I ask my readers to be patient with my not-so-fabulous writing skills and see my message instead.  I will get better.  I promise.  I have finally found it more important to communicate my experiences in a timely manner than to "wow" my audience with talented writing.  I am committed to publishing my blogs quicker as long as you are committed to forgive a developing writer.

Cusco Syndrome

11.  Inconsistent temperature of water (if it was available at all that day).  As a privileged American, I had no idea that second a third world countries have their water turned off for parts of the day.  Sometimes, water was turned off the entire day.  Different parts of Cusco were affected differently, but in the end, sometime syou just didn’t have water.  Somehow, that seemed to coincide exactly at the time I needed a shower.  The temperature of the water rarely stayed consistent.  The water would start off a pleasant water temperature, luring an unsuspecting dirty person into its trap.  Then, without warning it would turn scalding.  After you adjust, or not, suddenly the water would turn ice cold which usually involved some yelling an cursing at the devious shower.  Cusco showers- I will not miss you one bit.

10.    Venders consistently harassing anything with a white face or camera around its neck to buy their product or use their services: finger puppets, shoe shine, sun glasses, picture with the lady and her llama or children selling ANYTHING at all hours of  the night with that annoying pout on their face and “Why, senora?  Why not?  Where are you from?”

9. Calling them cobblestone streets was an understatement.  Some ingenius Inka discovered that if you take an oval rock about the size of your hand and turn its narrow side up, and space them out about 2 inches apart, the streets will be more prepared for an earthquake.  Unfortunately, this Inka did not think of the billions of shoes it would rip up and the amount of foot pain and increased tripping incidents it would cause from this invention.  At least the streets will be safe when an earthquake occurs.  To be fair, only half of the streets are like that.  The other half are slick, uneven stone that are slanted or jagged rock.  Most of my time in Cusco was spent looking down to avoid tripping.  Although, those rebellious times I was not looking down, I tripped and fell on my right knee.  Four times total.  The first fall required painkillers and a day off of work.  When it rained, these rocks became slick and even MORE dangerous.  Thank goodness I left at the beginning of rainy season, or else I might not have knee caps by the end of my journey.

8. The speed at which Cuscenians walk.  In many parts of life in Cusco, the slow pace is a nice break from the American-paced life.  Unfortunately, when you’re running late, or even just want to not waste time in the commute from one place to the next, too bad.  Not only do Cuscenians move slower than sloths, but they somehow have developed over the years, through genetic mutation, this sixth sense of where people are walking behind them and move in the direct path of where that person is walking.  At all times.  So passing them is near-impossible because of this keen sense.  Literally, these people will weave in the exact pattern you are to block your ability to pass.

7. Along with their slow walking habits, Cuscenians also have the slowest service I have seen in my life.  Literally, you will never get the check at the end of a meal at a restaurant if you don’t ask for it.

6. Undrinkable tap water.  This felt like some ploy from a huge, all-empowered corporation.  Cusco is suffocatingly dry for Gringos (and not for Peruvians for theorized genetic reasons).  If you are not prepared, that thirst will hit you when you’re out, far away from home and are forced to buy water you would easily get for free in a developed country.  I miss you, water fountains.

5. Well-built houses.  In the US, we having something called “building codes.”  In Peru, the only code is, if it’s standing, it’s a building.  So, it is fairly common to see shoddy patchwork and plastic roofs.  Also, what it meant for living conditions, was a severe lack of sound proof walls and doors as well as a house that constantly sheds plaster. 

My first apartment was well lit with sunlight during the day and stayed warm at night.  Unfortunately, our walls were made from plywood and windows.  Some of the windows were missing in these walls, as well.  Every sound and every visitor was heard in the entire house.

In 10 years, the house I was last living in (affectionately called the “Ice House” for its ability to keep in the cold at night) will probably not be there anymore because of the amount of fallen plaster found all aroundthe house each day.  In some places, the house was literally held together with hot glue. 

4. The informal-ness of business.  Receipts were written on scraps of paper, or receipts with other companies’ names on the top of them.  Also, there were no rent contracts.  For example, in the states, you can essentially reserve an apartment or house for a certain number of months by signing a contract.  Peruvians don’t work that way.  They get rent every month and it reserves that apartment or house for one month.  That’s it.  So, more than once, a duena (landlord) has raised the rent unnecessarily or asked us to leave just because.  It’s a brutal world renting a place in Cusco.

3. Construction.  Every country has construction.  But usually, it has a logical beginning and ending as well as an appropriate time it is done in.  In Cusco, that is not the case.  When construction is done on a street or a sidewalk, the entire thing is shut down. That means an entire sidewalk is ripped up, without regard for the people that enjoy walking safely in that place.  There is no alternative route.  The sentiment is, “Good luck walking down the side of this lane of traffic.  I hope the cars swerve in time and don’t hit you.”   Then, when the cement is dry and is able to be walked on, for some reason, the sidewalk is only halfway done.  So you’re walking on have-paved sidewalks and skipping down the maze of cement tiles they have laid down.  This stayed for two months and never was completed by the time I left.

2. Let’s talk about bathrooms.  What Americans consider a proper bathroom, Peruvians consider very flexible.  What is deemed optional:

·         toilet seats

·         toilet paper

·         soap

·         doors to stalls

You better bring your ETP (emergency toilet paper)!

1. Adjusting to altitude.  Suddenly I became the fat kid again, huffing and puffing up stairs.  Hiking anywhere became near impossible for a while.  And, knowing my affinity for sleep, I felt an exaggerated amount of exhaustion all of the time.  I was lucky because some people feel altitude sickness in more severe ways, such as nausea and even vomiting.  Although, whenever we had an ailment, we were easily able to blame it on the altitude.

In many ways, Cusco was the perfect city to start my travels.  My directionally challenged brain didn’t have to figure out the streets of a big city.  It’s VERY tourist friendly, making it very accessible to ease into learning Spanish (sometimes too easy).  It was relatively safe, the worse crime was pick-pocketing (except a couple of instances of taxi drivers kidnapping people, taking money and beating up tourists and leaving them in the middle of nowhere).  Besides the perfectness of Cusco being my starter city, there are absolutely unique and charming aspects of the city I will miss.

When Americans are taught in school about seasons, we are taught there are four of them. In Cusco, only two seasons are present:  wet and dry.  And the extremes very much exist.  Dry season is during what we consider winter and is like an absolutely perfect autumn day everyday.  During dry season, it did not rain once.  There was always a very slight breeze and the ideal temperature of around 70-75 during the day.  The temperature did drastically change when the sun went down.  So, you learn the wear layers and are prepared for any temperatures.  I mostly adjusted to this, but was still ignorantly caught by “surprise” (the temperature drop was not a surprise at all, seeing as it happened every night, without fail) about a quarter of the time.  My fault.  I take responsibility.

As I was making friends with the city, Cusco’s beauty immediately struck me.  In many cities, you can go to certain spots in the city and see its beauty, but this city has beauty everywhere.  Even dirty alleys appear to have character.  Also, because Cusco is in a bowl, surrounded by mountains in every direction, each view has mountains peaking over the top.  Those of us gringos staying for a while in Cusco got used to tourists stopping in the middle of a sidewalk to take a picture.  You had to walk with awareness because this could happen at any second.  All of us have bumped into our fair share of picture-taking tourists.

The gringos that have settled in Cusco for a longer stay didn’t like to think of ourselves as tourists, (even though we clearly were).  We were snobby about knowing the “ways of Cusco” as well as the secrets, such as where to find cheap, delicious food and alternative routes to avoid the harassing street vendors that spot a gringo a mile away.  We also acclimated to the relaxed way of life.  We learned to accept that our bill won’t come at a restaurant unless asked for.  When meeting a Peruvian, agree to a time 30-45 min before you actually want to be there.  They only operate on “Peruvian time.”  Even the most on-time gringos learned to accept this immoveable part of the culture. 

When I asked a Peruvian once about why they are so late all of the time, the response was somewhere along the lines of, “enjoy life in this moment.”  I can get behind that mentality.  So, in Cusco, I learned to enjoy life outside of work in a much more casual way.  Rarely did I worry about the exact timing of activities or even about committing to activities at all until I felt like doing them.  It’s easy to adopt this attitude when every else has adopted it as well.  I’m curious if I’m able to continue a much more relaxed approach when I’m in a big, rushing city.  I think, unfortunately, in those situations, people with this mind-set, when surrounded by a faster society, appear flaky and undependable. 

One of my favorite parts of my Cusco experience was my students.  The unadulterated sense of admiration and respect automatically given to the English teachers was astounding.  Much to the dismay of the gringo teachers, the English teachers were stubbornly called “teacher” and not by our first or last name.  This was just one of the ways they showed their deference towards “teacher.”  For a brief 6 months, I felt like a celebrity in this little city.  Cusco was small enough to bump into my students on the street as well as at their jobs.  My students were bartenders, tour guides, salespeople in camping stores and receptions at fancy hotels.  I even accidentally found two of my students working at the hotel my brother and sister-in-law stayed at after they booked it!  This meant the English teachers in Cusco got “hooked up” with free booze, free food and highly discounted tours and services.  On the street, I was introduced to my students’ families and invited to parties just because I was their teacher.  Even on a tour of the Sacred Valley, when the tour guide found out I was an English teacher, he started referring to me as “profe” and told all other tour guides about my profession.  Apparently, I was the celebrity on this trip.

All in all, Cusco was an eye opening experience that will always be a part of who I am.  The people I met and opportunities I was fortunate enough to have, will be part of my life story forever.  Thank you, Cusco, for challenging me, looking out for me, helping me grow and thoroughly preparing me for my next adventure.