Triumph

Why triumph? I don’t know, really. Today, I decided to write to title before the post. Apparently, “triumph” is my current state of mind, albeit with due cause. Over the last few weeks, I’ve had some major and minor victories which seem to have put me in a triumphant mood.

When Joseph (ex-volunteer at Ihungo) visited about a month ago, we discussed transportation around Bukoba. You see, my school is situation at the top of a fairly steep hill, overlooking the town and some five kilometers from it (Davis, five kilometers is still three miles; you stopped reading didn’t you, you fair-weather friend?). To walk to my school from town takes a little over an hour, taxis are outrageously expensive, and public transport is unscheduled and unreliable. Where does that leave those of us who are not only stingy, but also in a hurry? Velocipedes. Beautiful, 21-speed machines. Every volunteer is outfitted with a (mostly) new bike when installed at site, as my Trek 820 proves. I haven’t bought a bike since I was around 10, when I got some grey Japanese hybrid at a shop in Eugene. It’s been a comfort to have this Trek, though for a long time, I didn’t take advantage of it. You see, since my arrival at school, I’d been regaled with the legend of Joseph, Biker of the Gods. According to the tales, this man-beast was born with his feet clipped into pedals, and could bike across Lake Victoria if he so desired (he didn’t desire; too banal). For real though, I have heard the story about Joseph biking from here to Karagwe (some 120 kilometers distant) at least ten times. Let me tell you, being slammed with the exploits of another like that has one immediate effect- I stopped wanting to ride my bike after only a few weeks at site.

A year and a half passed, and then came my conversation with Joseph about getting around Bukoba. He told me it used to take him about 15 minutes to ride home from town and, more importantly, that he could bike the entire hill without stopping, wheezing, crying a little, and then falling over. By the time he told me this, I had attempted to bike up the hill, that sloped demon, only once. I stopped, wheezed, and I swear I never cried but I did fall over. Hearing his dismissal of the hill as “easy to climb” flipped the that’s-it-I’m-gonna-do-it-too switch in my brain, and I geared up for the challenge. Get it, “geared up”? That’s a joke. It’s funny because bikes have gears.

Since his departure, I have made the attempt to surmount this monster of a hill twice or three times a week. On two occasions, I’ve passed out from exertion. On others, when I arrive home, I flop onto my bed and lay inert for hours, too tired to do anything but stare at the American flag waving majestically in my window. On all occasions, I could not get past this one stretch that is like a 20-percent uphill grade for a kilometer; it was too steep, too long. Note I used past tense in that last sentence, and here comes the method behind the mayhem of my “Triumph” title- last week, I conquered that son of a bitch. I deserve to call the hill that, after being beaten by it so many times. Here’s how my victory came about: Jodi and I were hanging in town the other day, cruisin’ around on our bikes like a two-person gang (by definition, the smallest possible gang). We reached this one area with a bit of a climb, and I shifted down to 3/1. I asked Jodi what gear she was in, assuming she was rolling 3/1 also. She replied “1/1, and it feels like I’m just walking.” What’s this..? 1/1? In all my attempts of scaling the son of a bitch, I had never shifted below 3/1. I don’t know why, it just never occurred to me. The next time I reached that diabolically difficult stretch, I kept it at 3/1 until my quads exploded, then dropped down to 1/1. Ha-HA, hill! When I reached the apex and neared my house, I cheered wildly for myself in between ragged and desperate intakes of oxygen. Sweet satisfaction. Since that day, I have only had two other opportunities to try again. On one, I was in a state of minimal sobriety and I’m fairly certain that I was secreting vodka through my pores. I didn’t quite make it that day, and I do not recommend rigorous exercise after beer and vodka. The other time, I breezed up the hill in a solid twenty minutes. Rad.

Since I’ve already written a lot, I’ll try to be brief about my other triumph- climbing a tree. Don’t laugh, I’m scared of heights. Don’t laugh, lots of people have vertigo. I’d bungee jump, would you? Anyway, the rainy season is-a comin’ here in Bukoba, and if old hillbillies lived here, they would be in rocking chairs on the front porch talking about feeling in their bones the changin’ weather. So in a fit of unusual preparation and planning, I decided to clean my gutters. Recall, roughly 50-percent of the water I use is rainwater. Dirty gutters equals dirty water for washing, cooking, and bathing. I don’t have a ladder, and my roof is high (this seems to be a common trait of roofs). I had to get onto my roof to clean off all the leaves and debris, but how? Well, one of my big avocado trees has a branch which abuts the edge of the roof. I’ve seen students get up there when stealing my avocados. Again, that’s-it-I’m-gonna-do-it-too came into my mind. Having long arms is a blessing for climbing trees, but weighing 190 pounds is not. Halfway to the roof, the branch I was on started cracking. I performed a monkey-like swing grab onto a higher branch and dangled there, twenty-five feet up. Hand-over-hand I managed to secure the roof and drop to relative safety. Then I sat and trembled for a good ten minutes. Don’t laugh. Two hours later, I’d accumulated an enormous pile of dirt, leaves and fear. But mission accomplished, my gutters are now clean. I think the last time they were cleaned was during the days of German colonialism. That was another joke. This time, it’s funny because Germans colonized Tanzania over a hundred years ago. To descend from the roof, I had the opportunity to utilize all my lankiness and monkey skills. I crouched on the edge, stretched out one arm to its maximum, then leapt, soared, and grabbed a branch five feet away. It was terrifying. I wish someone would have been here to take a video, I’m sure it was the most awkward attempt to be agile, ever. Triumph.

Duality Bites

One lesson I’ve taken from my time in Tanzania is how to take the good with the bad. Examples are abundant: the social openness of my neighbors (good) coupled with a severe lack of privacy (bad); my ability to solicit funding in attempts to ease the burdens of life here (good) contrasting with people viewing me only as a dollar sign (bad). I could go on. Over the last week or so, I’ve had yet another opportunity to see this dualistic nature of life and people. Ever the optimist, let me start with the good.

My previous week was fantastic. Peace Corps arranged a seminar for my training group, a chance for those of us who stuck it out to meet one last time in order to exchange stories, ideas, and advice. The seminar was ostensibly to serve as a preparation for our inevitable return to the (relatively) fast-moving and chaotic life awaiting us back in the States, but this facet was eclipsed by our joy in seeing one another one last time. One last hurrah for the battered veterans of two years’ struggle in a foreign land. As a parting gift, the seminar was held in a picturesque lodge at the base of Mt. Meru, Tanzania’s second highest peak. Each day, we were rewarded with stunning views of both Meru and Mt. Kilimanjaro that would have made a National Geographic photographer green with envy. As hard as it was to know that we would shortly leave one another to pursue our individual dreams, those few days of the seminar were blissful in the company we shared. The last day culminated with a slide show of pictures aggregated from so many cameras, a visual record of the group’s two years in Africa. For the last time, we laughed and reminisced as one.

I won’t say it was easy to return to bucolic Bukoba after this brief interlude of camaraderie, but the work awaiting me necessitated my focus that I couldn’t dwell on the solitude. After a short time, I was gregarious, happy Masanja again. Talking with my brother a few days ago, I vehemently argued against the Buddhist ideal that all life is suffering; there is too much beauty in the world for it to be so, I said. I only mention this as a glimpse into the outlook I was maintaining at the time. Simply put, it was that life is inherently good. Now as I mentioned, the duality of the world doesn’t tend to accept such a polarity without producing a counterpoint: joy and sorrow; pain and pleasure (although to some…); electron and positron. Enter the bad.

Whether it was disrupted plans, a work overload, or a smelly dead rat that my cat left under my bed, nothing seemed to ruffle my feathers. Even now, I’m in that mental state of tranquility, but it is becoming harder to maintain. Let me explain: for the last six or eight months, a local boy has been coming over to my house to hang out. At the risk of sounding vain, let me say that I thought of him as a protégé of sorts. I tried teaching him as much as I could, from Pokemon (Jodi still can’t believe that one) to cooking Asian food to world history and classical music. I enjoyed the time this boy spent with me, for his focus was phenomenal. Here, I thought, was a Tanzanian unencumbered by a lack of attention span or an absent desire for edification. The boy would study my physics books and ask me pertinent questions; he would read about America in magazines and look to correct his false impressions. For over half a year, we continued this relationship, mentor and pupil. He was a sponge that absorbed all the knowledge and ideas that I immersed him in.

However, during this time, my personal belongings began to go missing. First it was a box of Aplets & Cotlets that I was saving for a guest, vanished silently from my kitchen. Then a small amount of money I had set aside as a gift for a friend joined the ranks. Over time, the list swelled, reaching an apex when my cellular phone disappeared (ironically, the phone was defunct and I had stopped using it). I won’t go into the details, but suffice it to say that this same boy managed to convince me that it was my house help who was responsible. To my credit, the circumstances were overwhelming that it was she who had been slowly, cautiously relieving me of my material possessions. One day, I sat her down and told her my suspicions, and asked her to return my missing phone or hit the road. What followed were several hours of her in overdramatic throes, violently protesting that God would clear her name and strike down those who had cast this fate upon her; I decided not to fire her. In retrospect, it was an honest mistake to first suspect her and a fortuitous decision to then believe in her innocence. The question remained: who could be stealing from me? Perhaps it seems obvious to you reading this, but understand I trusted this boy implicitly. Until this last week, that is.

In Tanzania, electronics are still a luxury and therefore are sold at a premium. Any informed thief would not settle for a bicycle or basketball, but would search out an mp3 player or thumb drive. As an American, I am a gadgeteer. We all have them- our ipods, blackberrys, and cell phones. Over the months this boy visited me, he had the privilege of being taught how to use a digital recorder, an mp3 player, and even a laptop (to some degree). When I returned from the seminar at Mt. Meru, in my blithe mindset I failed to notice some things were missing. Expensive, electronic things. Things that only he and I know how to use. Worse, he came to my house recently wearing a new coat, new jeans, and toting a new CD player. As a boy from the village, those are not easily affordable commodities. When I came to the realization that my electronics were missing, and the pieces started to click, I found myself face-to-face with the ugly, vile side of life.

Even without my having any appreciable attachment to material possessions, this hurt, bad. It threatened my calm, realizing how I’d been deceived and used for such a long period of time. Here comes the bad, hunting me and my bliss, seeking to claw, rend, and drag me from this exultant state back down to reality. I’m trying not to let it, but I can’t help continuing to reflect on the time we spent together, everything that was invested in that relationship, and the now-apparent falsehood of it all. In my wool-covered eyes, it had been great, something to take pride in. Now I’m left facing a betrayal, and I hate it. Why does the bad have to bring itself to bear on the times when life is good? Is life suffering for that reason? Is that the result of what is referred to as original sin?

Everyone has his/her own answer to these questions. Georg Hegel claimed that any thesis must naturally have an antithesis, the two opposites somehow integrating to form a whole. Paraphrasing, he said by understanding and accepting these dialectic aspects, we gain a more real view of the world around us. That was his answer, what’s yours?