Tag: Life in Tanzania Page 5 of 26

Please Go See “Queen of Katwe”

On October 10, 2016

Yes, it’s a classic underdog story that’s been done maybe too many times. Yes, the ending is predictable and makes you feel all gooey inside. But the setting–a slum in Uganda–is not anything I’ve seen before on screen. The actors are all African or of African decent. And the main character–Phiona–is phenomenally played by an ordinary Ugandan girl who grew up very similarly to Phiona herself–selling corn on the street. In fact, I readtoday that “The second time Madina Nalwanga saw a film inside a theater, she was the star of it.”

Sure, this may be a Stand-Up-and-Cheer movie, but it also doesn’t sugarcoat.

As I watched “The Queen of Katwe” this afternoon, I kept thinking–Yes, this is what many parts of Africa really look like. I’ve been in markets just like that. Yes, many really do live in shacks like Phiona’s family. Yes, many young girls feel their only way out of that life is by selling themselves to men. Yes, flooding in the slums really is that bad. Yes, hospitals often operate without anesthetic. Yes, there really is that kind of income disparity in Africa. Yes. Yes. People need to see this.

I try to explain East Africa to you with my words and my pictures. This movie does it so much better. Please, go see this movie. We took all our kids. It was a little intense; the girls cried. I cried. There’s a few things in this movie that some parents might not want their young children to see, so please check sources like this onebefore deciding if your kids can handle it. We are pretty protective with our kids when it comes to movies. But you know what? I’m not going to protect them from the devastation of what poverty looks like. That’s something they need to see. So do I.

The Grass is Always Greener in Arusha

By Amy Medina

On August 21, 2016

In Other

Lauren and I have dreamed about Arusha for a long time. We always knew that this northern Tanzanian city was in the region of Mount Kilimanjaro (home to where your Starbucks coffee is grown), the Great Serengeti (home to Simba), and is lush and green–at least 10 degrees cooler than Dar es Salaam. As far as we were concerned, that made it a paradise.

So when the opportunity arose for all of us to attend Swahili language school in Arusha for three weeks, we jumped at the chance. After all, we all needed to boost our Swahili, and a chance to spend time in Arusha would just be icing on the cake.

So we went. We headed ten hours north on the two-lane road, buses and semi-trucks dodging us at breakneck speed. We passed miles of sisal plantations and scrub brush savannah and villages of small mud houses. We went with our long-time friends Ben and Lauren, and our new friends Luke and Amber, and a gaggle of nine kids under the age of ten.

Arusha did not disappoint us. We stayed in guest cottages on a mission compound that is a version of Eden, where the chatter of monkeys woke us in the morning and the avocados dropped from heaven like manna. The temperature dropped into the sixties and we shivered in our hoodies and bought thick socks at the market to wear at night. We discovered that the grass really is greener in Arusha.

Of course, the bulk of every day, from 8:30 till 4, was spent on things like the seven noun classes of Swahili, and if you don’t know what a noun class is, then you can thank your lucky stars that English only has one. Our heads worked hard and words words words sorted themselves into slots in our brains with labels like “causitive,” “stative,” and “passive.”

that gaggle of kids with their teachers

the kids’ Swahili classrooms

It was hard mental work, and we were exhausted many days. But we were in such a beautiful place. And we were with beautiful friends who are like family, and we ate meals together and the conversations were as nourishing as the food. We walked the half hour to and from school every day, through corn fields and over streams and across a pasture of purple flowers. The kids spent every afternoon roaring around on scooters and slept every night on a wooden loft, snuggled under blankets in the frigid sixty degree cold.

walking to school

army ants! don’t want to mess with those….

at a natural spring–that’s my boy flying high on the rope!

We had a good, good time. But even though the grass is greener in Arusha, Dar es Salaam is home. And there is always something sweet about that.

This July 4th, I’m Thankful For My Blue Passport

By Amy Medina

On July 5, 2016

In Other

We have some good friends here who are citizens of Zimbabwe, a country to the south of Tanzania. Our friends are of European decent, whose ancestors colonized Zimbabwe generations ago.

I am also of European decent, and my ancestors colonized north America generations ago. However, my colonizing ancestors brought with them European diseases that wiped out 90% of the native American population, whereas the colonizing ancestors of my Zimbabwean friends were held in check by African diseases. Which meant that even though their ancestors established a government in a foreign land (just like in North America), they never became the majority population. (Okay, so I know it’s not actually that simple and is certainly quite ugly, but the comparison is interesting.)

Our Zimbabwean friends, like us from America, bear no responsibility for their ancestors’ choices, and yet reap the consequences, whether good or bad. Unfortunately, Zimbabwe has now been ruled by a tyrant for almost 4 decades, and the country that used to be called “the breadbasket of Africa” has had a complete economic collapse. So our friends, descended from ancestors much like our own, are left with citizenship from a country that they dearly love, but has nothing left to offer them. Their children have no hope of attending university or finding jobs in their own country. They are, in many ways, exiles. How differently their story of colonialism has ended.

We celebrated the 4th of July yesterday at a friend’s house who threw a big bash and invited people of any nationality. It felt normal, though, to celebrate America’s independence with non-Americans, since that’s what America has always been about. And even though the United States still has deep-seated problems with racism and immigration, it has still been the most open country in the world to outsiders. Every year, even though only several students in HOPAC’s graduating class are American, the majority of our students attend university in the States. America consistently seeks after international students and offers them the best scholarships–hands down. I’ve sat in the U.S. embassy in Tanzania and listened to visa interviews. Everyone wants to go to America. And a lot of the time, America says yes.

Living here has helped me to have a greater appreciation of my blue American passport. Unlike many countries in the world, I was able to acquire a passport with no trouble at all. Unlike other countries, my country allows me to freely come and go. By giving my children that blue passport, my girls will be given the opportunity to go to college (unlike many in Pakistan or Afghanistan); my sons will not be automatically conscripted into the military (unlike Israel, South Korea, or dozens of others).

It was a fabulous party, but I felt sad yesterday, did you? These days, it’s hard to know what’s in store for our country. Could we be heading in the same direction as Zimbabwe? Living overseas has often increased my frustration with America, but also my appreciation. It’s never been perfect, but we sure have a whole lot more than most of the world–in opportunity, freedom, and possessions. I am apprehensive for America’s future. But for now, I’m still thankful for that blue passport.

A kid with a kid.

Gil with one of the pastors in our program.

Bet you didn’t drink out of coconuts at your 4th of July celebration.

Finding Church (and Laughter)

By Amy Medina

On June 14, 2016

In Other

I’m pretty sure that in heaven some day, all the northern hemisphere folks are going to watch the Tanzanians worship God and they’ll say,

“Shoot, why were our Sundays so boring all those years?”

(If you’re reading in a feed, you’ll have to click to the blog to see this video.)

You know you’re in for some movement when your worship leader starts off by saying, “Okay everybody, make sure you spread out and have room for dancing.”

And this particular church? Presbyterian, people. Not even Pentecostal. When in a sub-Saharan African church, you dance. Dance or go home.

The dancing is my favorite part of church here. But other than that, church has been a struggle sometimes. We spent 10 years at international churches during our years at HOPAC. But now that our ministry is to the Tanzanian church, we’ve felt compelled to be a part of it on Sundays. Which means attending church where Gil and I are often the only white folks (or rather, I am the only white person, since Gil is a nice shade of brown). We are different in color, in culture, in language. We stick out like sore thumbs.

It doesn’t help that in our effort to network with different pastors, that means we visit lots of different churches. So it’s taken a long time to really feel connected anywhere.

Which makes me particularly thankful for this group.

A number of months ago, we joined the small group from our church that meets in our area of the city. We are the only non-Africans in the group. They’ve been meeting together for a long time, and we are the outsiders. But they have welcomed us with open arms; they have invited us into their lives and cultures.

Last weekend they planned a special dinner for couples with the purpose of strengthening marriage, and they invited us to help. It was one of those evenings with good conversation and even better laughter.

Laughter, I think, is one of those absolute necessities to fellowship. We are privileged indeed.

When Johnny’s Eye Started Bleeding

By Amy Medina

On May 2, 2016

In Other

Yesterday evening, our friend Mark and his daughter were over to watch the big game (Leicester vs. Manchester United, for those of you who appreciate these things). Gil was trying to get the internet to work, and the kids were horsing around in the projector light.

Johnny had on a pair of plastic sunglasses, and he was pretending to rap the way his brother had in a class assembly last week. Suddenly, we heard him scream.

Kids get hurt and cry all the time, but in those few moments, we realized quickly that this was not just a whiny cry. And blood was trickling out of Johnny’s eye. He had jabbed himself with the sunglasses.

Gil and I quickly rushed him to the bathroom. His eye was bloodshot, and the blood was coming out of the corner. Seconds later, his eyeball filled with blood.

I snatched my phone and called the emergency number for the medical clinic where we are members. The doctor asked a few questions and then told us to bring him in. Mark offered to take our other kids to his house, so we grabbed their toothbrushes and sent them in his car. I was wearing shorts, which I have never worn out in public in this culture, so in a frenzy I found a wrap and my purse. Five minutes after the accident, we were out the door.

I held Johnny’s head on my lap in the car while Gil frantically tried to push the car through the ever-present traffic. About 20 minutes into the 45 minute trip, Johnny stopped crying. I checked his eye, and it had stopped bleeding. It was bloodshot and red, but the Darth Maul look was gone.

The doctor confirmed that he would be okay. The accident had burst a blood vessel, and the blood had come out through his tear ducts, making it look a whole lot worse than it actually was. We have to watch for infection, but he should be fine.

Though I don’t think about it too often, I’ve always had those what if moments thumping around in the back of my consciousness. Last night, I wondered if one of those moments was actually happening. Johnny’s adoption is not yet finalized. Which means that he is not on our health insurance. Which means that he doesn’t have a passport, so we would not be able to evacuate him in an emergency.

Though it is improving significantly, high quality healthcare is really limited here. We are members of a great clinic, which allows us to use their 24-hour emergency number. This is important because there is no 911, and if you want an ambulance service, you have to pay a hefty monthly fee. Plus, we’ve never been convinced that an ambulance can get through Dar’s legendary traffic much faster than anyone else. Anyone who can afford it gets evacuated to Kenya or South Africa in an emergency.

So even with my other children, who are on our insurance and do have passports, I’ve always wondered what exactly we would do in an emergency. What if there were only minutes to spare? What if even medical evacuation wasn’t fast enough?

Our kids have always been remarkably healthy, and this was our first semi-emergency for any of them. In fact, the only other time we’ve used that emergency number in 12 years was for Gil. But what if. There’s a family serving in Mongolia–friends of friends–who are dealing with that reality right now with their sweet baby. It happens. It could happen to us.

I don’t have much choice, do I? I can fret over all the things I will never be able to control, or I can trust the God who brought me to Tanzania, who gave me these children, and who knows every time a sparrow dies. I know that he doesn’t guarantee that my children will always be healthy and safe. But he does guarantee his presence and his goodness.

So today, I am thankful. Thankful that we can afford the best clinic in town, that Johnny will be okay, and that my God is good. All the time. Even if the ending hadn’t been happy.