Giving Americans a Good Name

I flew to Tanzania via Addis Ababa, where I had a 3 hour layover and changed planes.  The waiting area was small and the number of people waiting was large, so I had the delightful experience of observing for an extended period two groups of the classic Ugly Americans.

The first group was a pair of young people, a boy and a girl in their 20's (or 30's or teens--no one under 40 looks to me like they should be let out of the house on their own).  I overheard the boy saying that he had brought 20 pounds of Power Bars.  Then the girl said--and it was so impressive that I wrote it down--that she had bought for the trip "bulk peanut butter, bulk Nutella and bulk granola bars."  Just what Americans are known for--wanting to visit other countries without having to experience anything unfamiliar.

And the second group was three middle-aged couples.  They were all carrying their brand new backpacks, and the men--all pudgy and 50+ years old--were every one of them dressed like they were going to a costume party as Papa Hemingway.  Khaki shorts.  Khaki safari vest.  Big camera with a big shoulder strap.  And they had stopped shaving.  They looked incredibly macho.  Well, in their own imaginations they did.  And I'm not one to argue with that definition of manly.

So how was this a delightful experience for me?  Because these Ugly Americans were Canadians (first pair) and Germans (the 3 couples).  It was so wonderful!  I mean, it was so wonderful, eh!

Speaking of foreigners, there are 9 other volunteers living in the Volunteer House:  8 from Finland and 1 from the Netherlands.  I can talk with the guy from the Netherlands about the things that Dutch people care about: drugs and cheese.  But with the Finns?  I know less about Finland than I do about Ruritania, and Ruritania is purely fictional.  Though, to tell the truth, until yesterday, I thought Finland was also purely fictional.  And now that I've heard them speak their language, I am even more certain that it's all a big hoax.

One of the volunteers is studying Finnish literature at university, and I'm a very literate guy, so we had quite a good conversation about her favorite Finnish writers.  Well   .   .   .  "good" may not be the best choice of descriptive words.  It was good in the sense that she told me about many famous and admired Finnish authors, and I said things like "Who?"  "What?"  "Really?" and "I've always wanted to read some of his books.    .    .    .   Oh, right.  Her books."

They have put me in a single room here at the Volunteer House.  I believe that I am the only volunteer with his own room.  It may be because I'm American, and hence likely to be packing large numbers of firearms and eager to settle arguments by saying, "Slap leather, hombre!"  But I choose to believe that it is because of my maturity.  And by "maturity" I mean "tendency to fall asleep at the dinner table."  Last night I was the first to bed, probably by at least 2 hours, and this morning I was the first one up by the same 2 hours.

For those who are curious, here are two pictures of my room:

The room is about 10 feet by 10 feet, with a bed, a desk, two chairs and a closet with built-in shelves. 
The only thing that suggests I'm not in a dorm room is the mosquito net suspended above the bed.  Oh, yes, and the lack of empty vodka bottles in the trash.  ("A guy down the hall brought those with him when we had a math study session, Mom and Dad.  Really.  They're not mine, at all.")

And here is the front of the house:

The rainy season is just ending, so all the trees and plants are green and there are blossoms galore.  And that object in front of the left-hand window is a turtle.  I don't know what the story is regarding that turtle, but I hope it's an elaborate and exotic one.  And that it doesn't involve the turtle being some night's dinner.

Tonight's dinner was a diced tomato and avocado salad, mashed potatoes and a dish that's something between a stew and a curry--it seems to be a standard way of cooking here, and it's been very tasty.  Tonight's stew/curry had vegetables and little light-colored pieces of meat that tasted like chicken.  Now, what is it that people say about turtle?  "It tastes like  .  .  .  chicken."  Oh, no!


Actually, I'm pretty sure is was real chicken.  I discovered when we walked into town this morning that across the road from the house is "Mama Kuku's".  "Kuku" is the Swahili word for "chicken", and it is a chicken-raising operation.  Our guide said that you can go to a window at the front and buy a (really fresh) chicken.  By the way, for you urban planners out there, Moshi (the city I'm in) doesn't have the tightest zoning laws on earth, as was proven this morning at 5:30am when about a thousand roosters announced the new day.  Not a problem for me--but for the young Finns, maybe not such a delight.

I'm going now to study my Swahili so that I can be the teacher's pet in Swahili class tomorrow.  Since there are only two of us in the class, I figure I have a 20% chance of success.  "Math is Hard!" for both Barbie and me.