Karibu tena!

Welcome back... kind of.

My two weeks back home must have been a dream.

Just five minutes into my return to Tanzania, it was like they never even happened. Every single day there was so refreshing. It was like leaving my internal computer battery plugged in overnight ... and then taking the time to recharge my spare battery, too. After a family Christmas, some quality time spent with great friends and a "Roberto" New Year, I felt completely and utterly renewed. Like spring in January. That's how I felt.

And then ...

I got in the car.

Hunter had some bad news.

"Someone broke into our house while we were gone." Me in America, he in Zanzibar.

"What'd they take?"

Our stereo, our stove, our toaster oven, both of our hiking boots meant for Kili, all of Hunter's boxers, tons of our own personal cash, all our bootleg DVD's, my sheets (??), our business cards (???), the printer, a video camera, a Polaroid camera, and a TON of cash earmarked for the library we're building at school. But the illiterate thieves left all the books, had no interest in our Seinfeld or Curb DVD's, and even left an iPod which they had no way of knowing was broken. I guess that was our Christmas gift -- the stupidity of the thieves.

The first time this happened, it wasn't a break in. It was an 11-year-old punk neighbor who was stealing from under our noses, little by little, for about six weeks. He was caught; he was whipped with a rubber tire hose by his father; he was humiliated; he was chillin' by that afternoon. He never once apologized. The whole fiasco, coming less than two months into our time here, made a huge dent in my spirit -- it was my first exposure to the fact that trust is not a commodity for a white man in black Africa, and it laid some serious doubt in my mind about the universal character of human beings. I'll probably never be the same person as a result. I thought that was the lowest it could get.

Then, I got in the car.

I thought Ally had taken a lot from us. But his work seems like child's play in comparison to the Grinches who stole our entire house during Christmas. The little 11-year-old stole about 1/10 the amount of goods that these latest hustlas took. And what do ya know? Not a single neighbor heard a peep, despite the fact that our door was broken with a crow bar, and despite the fact that the thieves stole so much heavy stuff that two, maybe three trips were necessary to get all the booty out.

Didn't hear a thing. Yeah right.

What can we do in this situation? God knows we can't turn to the police -- I had to bribe an officer with $10 to get back the $160 that Ally stole from me initially. I can't afford bribes like that all the time. Nor can we rely on help from our friends in Patandi -- no matter how good we become at Swahili, no matter how hard we try to integrate ourselves into the community, we'll always be Wazungu at the end of the day. New kids. Not loke dogs. Why would they pick us over their real neighbors?

They wouldn't, and they aren't. We're alone in this. All we can do is go for the reverse of "Sticks and Stones" logic.




With Biti's help, we drafted this letter to the community, and taped it to our gate for three days.

Allow me to translate:

HAWATUWEZI

*(a popular hip hop song by Arusha group Nako2Nako is called "Hawatuwezi." Everyone in this part of Tanzania knows that song. It means, "they can't touch us," or "they can't f*** with us," basically. Completely unrelated is the word "wezi," which means "thieves." Get it? HawatuWEZI? Thieves can't touch us! Even in Swahili I'm making puns!)


Kabla hatujaanza, wacha tuseme Heri ya Mwaka Mpya! Tuwashukuru kwa kutembelea kwetu kipindi ambacho hatukuwepo. Ilikuwa vizuri kwenu kukagua kwetu kama hivyo. Asante sana.

Before we begin, allow us to say Happy New Year! We are very grateful to y'all for visiting our house while we weren't there. It was really nice of you to check up on us like that. Thankyou very much. *(Sarcasm is always funny!)


Vitu mlivyoiba sio vyetu. SISI tuko poa tu. Hamjatuumiza KABAISA kwa sababu mliiba kutoka shirika letu, sio sisi. Lakini, kufanya hivyo inamanisha kuiba kutoka kwa watoto yatima wa nchi yenu, ambao tumekuja kuwasaidia: watoto wa PATANDI na vijiji vingine pia.

The things which you stole aren't ours. WE are just fine. Y'all haven't hurt us AT ALL because you've stolen from our organization, not us. But to do that is to steal from the orphans of your country, whom we've come to help. Kids from PATANDI and other villages, too. *(I'm Catholic. Guilt always worked for me!)


Haitakula kwetu. Itakula KWENU. Mungu anapanga yote mwishoni.

It isn't going to eat at us. It'll eat at Y'ALL. God settles everything in the end. *(1: this is a shout out to other Nako2Nako lyrics, which will give us street cred. 2: In a country as religious as this one, but where there is zero faith in civic institutions, leaving judgment up to God is the TZ equivalent of saying, "I'll see your ass in court.")


Akupendaye,

Hatari na Mwidaji

Love,
Danger and Hunter


NB: Kofia ambayo mmeacha imetupendeza sana.

P.S. The hat y'all left looks good on us. *(I mean, what kind of RETARDS leave their Made In China, fake New York Yankees beanie when they're breaking into a house?)


NB: Asante kuacha gita pia. Wampumbavu NYIE WEZI.

P.S. Thanks for leaving the guitar, too. You stupid thieves.

Wouldn't you be scared, too? Hunter is wearing the hat, by the way...

Hunter and I are living in a Mzungu spaceship, and while we can communicate with the people we've plopped down in the middle of, we'll always be Martians from outer space in the eyes of the majority.

Which is why we've been informed that we now have to move out of Patandi. The word is out as to what the Martians have got inside their place, and we'll never be safe again living there.

This admission -- that we can't undo in six months a paradigm of Mzungu = money that has been in the making for centuries -- sucks, for lack of a better word.

It is an admission of reality. And reality bites.

Every morning, I have to force myself to adopt a positive attitude. There are a lot of mornings where I don't want to get out of bed and keep battling. But I do it anyway, because it's my job, and because I hate quitters. The craziest thing is that despite it all -- despite having to get into yelling matches over the price of a Coke, or the fair rate for a two-minute cab ride, or banging my head into a wall in the face of the rampant corruption among cops or immigration officers or whoever -- I'm not utterly miserable in Africa. I'm not. I actually kind of like it. So how would I feel if good things kept happening to us all the time? Scary to picture it. I'd probably love Africa, not just "kind of like it."

If you want to know the secret, though, the secret of how I'm able to force a positive attitude upon myself, I'll tell you.

These kids:

At least these kids love us.