An apologetically long post that I promise to be worthwhile if you have the time to read in full

Thanks for the clip-on flashlight that I got in my stocking, Mom!… uhh, I mean Santa! The power has been going out several times each hour here tonight so I’m writing this in my very dimly lit room. I only have 45 minutes of battery power left, so I’ll write as much as I can.

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I’ll go to class, read textbooks, analyze articles, and memorize vocabulary, but just living in Arusha will still teach me more than any schooling could. This Tuesday was a prime example of this theory. I had class from 8am-12pm, so a group of us decided to walk to the market after lunch. It was the hottest day yet—a scorching 91 degrees. I realized that locals like to practice their English on us as much as we like to practice our Kiswahili on them. As we passed a man on the street, he said, “Hi, how are you? Happy birthday!”…to give him some credit, his pronunciation was good and he was only about a week and a half off.

To be honest, we weren’t exactly sure where to go. We used our broken Kiswahili to ask “marketi wopi?” and in response we would usually get a vague finger pointing. Although we eventually made it to the market, what we initially found was not intended for newcomers. Our directional instincts had led us to the backside of the market where children and adults alike were digging through rotten fruit and vegetables. I made eye contact with a scruffy man, probably 50 years old, digging into a mango that he had just pulled from the pile of rubbish. We had been told that the market was vibrant and lively, but this was completely different. We climbed over the trash, hoping to find something more encouraging.

We rounded a corner and found what we were supposed to find all along. I was too busy watching my feet that I hadn’t yet taken a glance at my surroundings. When I finally did look up, I was so overwhelmed that I stopped walking, breathing, blinking—everything. It was late afternoon so the sun was just dangling somewhere between sunrise and sunset. It illuminated a mass of people shuffling between rows and rows of everything imaginable. You can’t find a convenience store or supermarket in Arusha—this is their Walmart. Do you want mangos? They’re on your left. How about fabric? Down the dirt road and to the right. Need a kids’ toy? A tailor? Kitchen supplies? Tires? Shoes? Rice? Bicycle? It’s all here. You just have to find it.

When I finally came to my senses, I looked down and saw a toddler holding a handful of black grocery bags, hoping to sell one to a needy shopper for 100 shilling. I looked a little further and saw all of the other children doing the exact same thing. Before I had the chance to grab one of them to keep for my own (jokes), we were suddenly surrounded by a group of young teenagers asking what kind of food we’re looking for. Hannah singled out two boys named Frankie and SuperStar to help us on our quest to find mangos, avocados, and bananas (SuperStar eventually told us that his real name is Leonard… I don’t blame him for changing it…). I was so overwhelmed that I was in no mood to haggle. This time around, I let Hannah deal with the business matters. Frankie and Leonard assured her that she was getting a fair price (6,000 shilling for 3 avocados, 3 mangos, and a bunch of bananas… which is about US $4.80). We took the deal, bid farewell to our new friends/business partners, and concluded our first market trip. I can’t help but wonder if Frankie and Leonard have spent their whole lives working at the market. I wonder if they were once those children selling grocery bags for 100 shilling when they were little.

The rest of the day was a blur because all of my senses had been taken advantage of at the market. There was the smell of both fresh and rotting food. The sound of people yelling all around me trying to get my business. The feeling of sweat on my brow from the relentless sun. The sight of thousands of people both making a living off of the market and living off of the market.

Wednesday was similar to Tuesday—learning book knowledge in the morning, learning life knowledge in the afternoon.

Thursday is the only day of the week when I don’t have class. Later in the semester, Thursday and part of Friday will be devoted to volunteer work. This particular Thursday, Roland had arranged a visit to the African Court and Shanga. We arrived promptly (and stupidly) at the Nyerere Centre at 9am, only to realize that we are now on African time so we didn’t actually leave until an hour and a half later (which is still prompt by Tanzanian standards).

A bus shuttled us to the African Court where we were lectured about its legal proceedings. All of these fancy law terms are relatively new to me, so a lot of the lecture was over my head. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the tour and I admire the work that the Court is doing to hold states accountable in order to strengthen a continent where corruption is widespread.

Following our tour, we were taken down the road to a place called Shanga (which means bead in Kiswahili). We had been told that we would be eating a fancy lunch there, but I came away with a lot more than just a full and happy stomach after the visit. Shanga is an incredible place. The motto is “Kindness is a language which blind people see and deaf people hear.” A European woman started this project to provide disabled Tanzanians with both a job and a way to express themselves. It began in a garage with a necklace that a disabled Tanzanian woman made and now it has expanded into something much bigger, but still humble in size and mission. In order to attract tourists to the shop to buy the products, Shanga expanded to include a restaurant managed by a Frenchman. For once I didn’t feel guilty about eating an expensive four-course meal because all of the profits are given to the disabled employees. They served us mango juice and champagne in fancy glasses before we even sat down. We ate a leisurely lunch under an elegantly draped thatched roof pavilion surrounded by gorgeous trees and flowers. I sat back in my comfortable chair, took a deep breath of pure air, looked around at my new friends, and felt perfectly content. No complaints.

I was very reluctant to leave Shanga, but everyone agreed that we had to come back to spend at least one full day there.

There’s no appropriate way to segue between Thursday afternoon and Thursday evening so I just wrote this sentence instead. Here I go.

There’s a tourist hotspot/outdoor restaurant called Via Via right next to the place where we take classes. We’ve gone there several times after morning class to have juice and practice Kiswahili with each other, so we’ve gotten to know the place fairly well. We had been told that every Thursday night, Via Via has a live Tanzanian band, so we decided to check it out. My inner nerd/natural instinct told me not to go to a concert on a school night, but everyone agreed to go and I am taking an African music and dance class, so this could be considered homework… right? Regardless, I am so glad that I went!

As chance would have it, four Americans sat at the table next to a few of us and we struck up a conversation. They were all recent graduates and now they’re working in an orphanage here for 6 weeks as missionaries. The conversation took its course and I found out that one of them was very involved in Campus Crusade for Christ in college. Small world! I got to know them pretty well and we exchanged phone numbers so they can show some of us the church they’ve been attending in Arusha.

Our conversation took an interesting turn when a Maasai guy named Lalahe (la-la-hey) bounced in the middle of it, quite literally. A few of us had met Lalahe randomly in town (he has no shame in meeting strangers), so he had come over to say hi to us. Lalahe is hard to miss. He wears the traditional Maasai clothing which includes vibrant robes draped over one shoulder, bracelets that go up to his elbow, multiple beaded necklaces, a machete, and a spear. If he weren’t one of the friendliest and most energetic guys that I’ve met, I would’ve been terrified; after all, he did help kill a lion… (it was hard to believe at first because there are laws against that now, but this was later confirmed).

Lalahe talked a mile a minute for about 30 minutes straight. He talked about why he’s in Arusha (trying to find someone to help him film a Maasai documentary), cattle, religion, tourism, and more than I can remember. And then Lalahe left the conversation just as quickly as he had entered it.

After the band was done playing, some familiar music began to play on the stereo. A group of us were dancing in a circle and suddenly out of NOWHERE Lalahe jumps into the center of attention. The Maasai must have the power of apparation. Lalahe was the most absurd dancer I’ve ever seen. He was constantly a blur because he was moving so fast—never staying in one spot for more than half a second. Every once in a while he would show off his vertical jump (which the Maasai are known for). I knew that only one person could challenge such absurd dance moves… and that person was me.

Unfortunately no one had a video camera handy for what happened next. All I can say is that at one point I busted out the classic sprinkler move. Not to brag, but I think I showed Lalahe that there’s someone out there who isn’t afraid to challenge him on the dance floor. And besides, now I can say that I battled a Maasai warrior.

As if that wasn’t enough excitement, we were scheduled to visit the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) on Friday. I now have my own photo security ID to enter the EAC/ICTR! Not only does it make me feel very official, but it also grants me access to the libraries and the courtrooms of people with charges against them for the Rwandan genocide. The ICTR is an amazing place that is making both African and world history with the work that it is doing… and it’s a stone’s throw away from our program base!

And finally on Saturday I had the chance to write about everything that has been running through my head for the past 4 days. I slept in, went to a coffee shop with Karla, Elise, and Hannah, bought some more fruits and vegetables from Frankie and Leonard at the market (I helped haggle this time), and studied for classes.

While we were at the coffee shop, a man next to us had a newspaper with a headline that read ‘Arusha named world’s 8th worst city’ according to Lonely Planet.

I disagree.