Adventures in Africa

Come together

Emilyro — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 15:45:56 GMT

It would seem that Bollywood stars have something to teach America about family and coming together.

Oprah Winfrey, one of America's most famous people, on Monday interviewed Aishwarya Rai and Abhiskek Bachchan, Bollywood heavweights with billions of fans around the globe. Oprah asked the gorgeous married couple about life with his parents. Ash and Abhi, as they are popularly known, explained that living under the same roof with his parents is completely natural in their part of the world, and respect for elders is of paramount importance. Wow, what a concept, eh?

Though they're in their 30s, Ash and Abhi must abide by a few household rules. "One of the rules in the house set by Mom is if we're all in the city, we have to have one meal a day together," Ash told Oprah.

Imagine an America in which every family made it a point to sit down for one meal a day together when everyone is around. No closing oneself in a bedroom to check email or play video games. No gulping down food over the kitchen sink. No eating around the TV. No heating frozen entrees in the microwave before everyone goes to their separate corners. Imagine a real emphasis placed on the importance of eating together and respecting each other.

Yes, our time seems to slip away all too easily, and our best-laid plans often go awry. But what if we really made the effort? We could start small, with just one dinner together as a family (whatever your definition of family is) each week. Big things could grow from there.

Here's a good way to kick it all off. Macy's is in the midst of raising enough money to provide 10 million meals for the hungry. All you have to do is host a dinner party, invite some friends, ask them to make donations, and Macy's will match what you raise. Better yet, make it a family and friends dinner and make a good, healthful, home-cooked meal using local produce. That could start a new healthful practice as well.

The Macy's Web site has all the Come Together information, along with tips from Martha Stewart (who likely will want you to paint some pumpkins or weave goat hair for a centerpiece or something).

At my house, my mom and I are planning a Skinny Come Together Dinner to celebrate a friend's recent 80-pound weight loss. Needless to say, we will be serving healthful dishes, along with lots of laughs.

So, I challenge you to raise hope, raise money, raise your health and raise a glass. Please let me know if you host a Come Together dinner and how it turned out.

Belly up

Emilyro — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 15:41:51 GMT

Kathy Ireland, former super-model and now a successful businesswoman, did a great service Tuesday night on "Dancing With the Stars."

I wouldn't have expected a goofy but entertaining show to offer up an important reality check, but "Dancing" did. Ireland allowed a photo of herself with some very normal post-pregnancy flab to be shown on national television.

Finally we have a celebrity who did not magically drop serious pounds immediately after dropping her kid. Ireland has talked to People magazine and wrote a book about how shocking and disturbing it was to gain 25 pounds in the years after giving birth, and I applaud her for continuing to be honest about this phase of her life. She admits that she let herself go because she was so focused on taking care of others. She then got back on track and got back into shape -- a great, and realistic, example for the rest of us to follow.

I don't have children, but I know that for many women, losing weight after having a baby is a serious struggle. When I see Halle Berry, Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kelly Ripa and others looking incredibly svelte just weeks after having a baby, I am astounded. This must make mere mortal mothers want to throw in the towel.

Celebrities have to look great for a living, but just once I wanted to see a famous person acknowledge that it's tough to stay in shape, letting normal women off the hook for not rushing out of the delivery room to jog five miles. I suspect that even with good genes, these other-worldly beauties are starving themselves to get this thin so quickly. And these celebs need to stop insisting that they only practice yoga to look this way. Such statements are doing the rest of us no favors.

So, thanks Kathy, for allowing that photo to be aired and for admitting that it was a long hard path back to physical fitness. You appear to be at a healthy weight and you positively glow out there. I also tip my cap to you for aging gracefully. Those laugh lines and crow's feet are character marks in my book.

You've got mail!

Emilyro — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 20:56:23 GMT

Dear Sir or Madam,

It has come to my attention that you have failed to respond to my recent emails. I understand your time is valuable, but so is mine. I was polite. I was gracious. I was slightly, but not overly, obsequious in my inquiry into a possible job at your firm. I sent one email and then dispatched a followup asking if you received my initial missive. I kept it brief.

Did you instantly feel revulsion toward my email? Did you sense that I am a bad person, or that I might ruin your company? I assure you this would not be the case if you hired me. I play well with others. I have gone over my resume, cover letter and clips 1,347 times to ensure they indicate that I am intelligent, qualified, sane, collegial and talented. I do not believe there were any typos in my resume or cover letter. Friends who are gainfully employed and possess degrees from nice colleges assure me my resume is great.

Here are some examples of what people have to say about me: "You are talented. I would hire you"; "You always make me laugh"; "I like your spirit and your sense of style"; "If you find a job, see if they will hire me."

So, what is it? Let me guess. You are "really super busy." Yes, I know. We all are busy, because this is 2009 America and everyone must be running 73 electronic devices at once and thinking about where to go for dinner and whether little Jessica has kid yoga class tonight and how to finish that report before the weekend. (BTW, put down your cell phone during dinner with your friends tonight. They get really irritated when you text throughout the meal; it looks as though you are not really interested in your friends. You can "OMG" and "WTF" someone later.)

I get that you are swamped. I used to be busy, too.

I was the music editor at the Chicago Tribune. I got a lot of voice mail and snail mail and email, and it could be overwhelming at times. But, guess what? If someone took the time to learn my name and how to spell it properly and that person asked me if I would be interested in interviewing Band X or getting a CD from Band Z, then I would take 25 seconds to respond to that email. Yes, it only takes 15-25 seconds to dash off an email indicating that you are not interested in me.

I won't be upset if you are not willing to talk to me about working at your company. I simply would appreciate the favor of a reply.

Thank you for your attention.

Core matters

Emilyro — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 00:44:26 GMT

The apple is perhaps the most revered, and yet somehow taken for granted, fruit in history.

The grape is honored for its ability to produce wine, and if you're a great person, you're a peach, but think of how often the apple appears in our vernacular.

You're the apple of my eye; an apple a day keeps the doctor away; one rotten apple spoils the whole bunch. Children with a rosy complexion are said to have apple cheeks; there's "The Apple Dumpling Gang," and Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin named their daughter Apple. We have Apple Records, and I am typing this post on, yes, an Apple.

Yet the apple is somehow pedestrian. We neglect it. It is ubiquitous and inexpensive and not terribly sexy.

I began seriously considering the place of the apple in our society when I started helping out at a friend's orchard here in eastern Nebraska. My friend, who is the same age as I am, had a stroke and his wife needed help making fruit pies and boxing apples and directing people to the pick-your-own apples.

For a mere 50 cents per pound, folks can pluck apples from the trees and cart them home. I enjoy watching people from the city pop out of their cars, scoop up a lungful of fresh country air, get out their kids' strollers, hook their dogs to leashes and head out with boxes or canvas bags or plastic sacks to collect their bounty.

Some groups try to outdo each other. When it comes time to weigh the little lovelies, they breathlessly watch me place the bags on the scale and the side that collected the most goes home feeling pretty sassy. The old people take their time and don't try to jam too many apples into the boxes. I carry their boxes to their huge cars (why do old people only drive enormous automobiles?) and they tell me I'm a good "kid." I'm 41, but they don't seem to notice.

One afternoon I had to deal with a pallet of honey crisps -- bright, shiny, sweet-smelling and as plump as collagen-filled lips. I developed a crush.

Just then I began to contemplate and rediscover the beauty of the simple-but-true apple. What a glorious variety: honey crisp, red delicious, golden delicious, gala, fuji, pink lady, jon-a-gold, jonathan, braeburn, granny smith. Does any other fruit have such marvelously evocative varieties?

Apples go into pies, tarts, fritters, applesauce, jam, cobbler, cider and, of course, directly into the mouth. Apple slices are wonderful with a smear of peanut butter or a slice of sharp cheddar. Pop a stick into them and dip them in caramel and you have a sweet treat.

There is no fuzzy outer coating to contend with here; just wash and go. They have lots of fiber and other does-a-body-good stuff and they can be sweet or tart.

And although we might not consider them sexy nowadays, Satan, in the guise of that slithering snake, certainly decided an apple would be the most tantalizing way to tempt poor weak Eve. And who could forget the way that shiny apple mesmerized the unwitting Snow White, left to fend for herself in that little house while the dwarves were hi-ho'ing their way to work?

Oh, that nasty witch knew that sweet homemaker just needed a little attention -- and a red delicious. Don't we all?

Nutty, but effective

Emilyro — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 22:12:03 GMT

One of my favorite Africa items is the handy coconut scraper (in photo). It resembles a boot scraper, but instead of cleaning muddy shoes, it scrapes the meat from the inside of a coconut.

My husband, who loves to cook, proudly demonstrated the coconut scraper for my mom and me one night while he whipped up steamed greens and coconut rice. He sat down on the scraper and began sawing away on a coconut using the serrated edge of the tool.

The finished product was delicious, and after watching him quickly make his way through that coconut, I decided I needed to get one of those scrapers in the States. Attention readers: Do any of you use one of these crude-but-effective little wonders?

Coconuts are everywhere in Tanzania. When a friend and I went to Zanzibar, a gorgeous island with the bluest water I have ever seen, we took a spice tour and learned about all the great things that grow there.

The guide was gregarious and silly and enjoyed playing Stump the Tourist on the Spice Tour. My friend Flora was a whiz at figuring out which spices come from which plants. I guessed wrong nearly every time, but I did recognize a breadfruit tree (breadfruit was fed to slaves on the ships to America) and an enormous coffee plant, which was as big as a tree.

I was surprised to learn that nearly every part of the cinnamon and peppermint plants is useful. Even the roots of the peppermint plant are used to make menthol. Just smelling the roots reminded me of the Vicks VapoRub my mom used to smear on my chest when I had a cold.

But back to the coconuts. The coconut trees are dizzyingly tall and slim, and on spice tours, one brave young man usually hustles up a tree (seen at right) to fetch a few coconuts for the tourists. Our climber also loudly and enthusiastically serenaded us while on the way up, his only climbing aid a rope tied around his ankles. After returning to terra firma, he lopped off the tops of the coconuts and it was time to slurp the fresh juice.

Delicious!

For those who want to try coconut rice, here is the way my husband makes it:

Cut a coconut in half and scrape the meat from inside. If you don't have a coconut scraper, a sturdy, short-blade knife with a serrated edge should do the trick. One half of the coconut meat will yield about four generous servings of coconut rice. You can refrigerate the unused coconut meat if you wish.

Place the shredded coconut in a bowl of very hot water. Let it sit for about 15 minutes or until you get a nice milky liquid.

While the coconut is soaking, make the rice according to package directions. Jasmine is fragrant and works well for coconut rice, I think. I like to add a bit of sesame oil to keep the rice from sticking and to give it a bit of Asian flavor. You also can use a rice cooker, which is my favorite way to make rice because it is so simple to use and the rice turns out beautifully.

Strain the bowl of coconut and pour the milky liquid into the pan with the rice or into a big bowl if you use a rice cooker. Discard the coconut bits. Stir the liquid and the rice together and add a pat of butter and some salt and pepper, to taste. If you like a sweeter rice, add a bit of cinnamon. Tanzanians love sweet foods, so they often add cinnamon to their rice dishes.

Serve with steamed greens or a nice stir fry on top or simply eat the rice as a side dish.

Out of Africa

Emilyro — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 17:42:24 GMT

Adventures in Africa may have to become Adventures in America.

I had to leave Tanzania and my sweet husband (temporarily) due to low cash reserves. Now I am trying to find a job, either in the U.S. or in Africa. Job hunting is never easy, but in this economy it is particularly brutal. My friends and family members have been wonderfully encouraging, and mom and dad are allowing me to shack up with them at the homestead in eastern Nebraska until the storm passes.

I am keeping myself busy with some online editing jobs and by helping out at a friend's orchard. I stay connected with friends through the Internet and I am focusing on staying healthy by breathing deeply, eating fruits and veggies and going for long walks. Sometimes I drink wine, though. Heck, there isn't much else to do in eastern Nebraska. I also am working my way through Chekhov's plays, something I never could find the time to do before my current state of semi-employedness. The Half-Price Bookstore and the public library are my go-to places when I need escapism, on the cheap.

I also amuse myself by counting Obama bumper stickers in Omaha. So far, I have found three. The other day a redneck managed to call Obama a socialist, communist and fascist in the same sentence. I silently debated whether to give him a primer on the difference between those schools of political thought, but then decided it wouldn't make a bit of difference in that man's sad world. And yes, ignorance is sad.

I try not to sink into a funk, but there are days when I wish I had never left my job in Chicago. At these moments, I have to remind myself of all the wonderful experiences I had in Tanzania -- experiences that never would have happened if I hadn't left my old life. This new life is just a temporary existence, I repeat to myself.

And, I know all about the odds of survival for a long-distance relationship. (Dr. Phil says they never work out, but I never liked him anyway.) Ombeni and I are determined to make it work. I spoke with him on the phone the other day and he said, "Be patient. We will be OK." I miss my husband, who was my husband for only a month before I had to leave Tanzania.

I can't whine, though -- at least not excessively. There are people who have lost their homes because they could no longer pay their mortgages. There are people out there with serious diseases who don't have health insurance. There are women being abused by men.

I am strong. I survived six months in a house in Tanzania with intermittent water and electricity and sucessfully dodged malaria and dola dola buses. The lousy job market will not defeat me. Living with my parents might, though.

So, what now? I will keep looking and writing and moving forward, or at least trying not to fall back too far.

Tying the knot in Tanzania

Emilyro — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 19:28:12 GMT

The minister rapped three times on our door, representing the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. As our four dogs barked furiously and irreverently and about 18 people watched, he drove out any evil spirits that might wish to harm our marriage and our home.

The blessing of the house occurred after a caravan made its way to our door once we had completed our tiny, sweet church ceremony, for which we were 20 minutes late because the dirt road was blocked by some sort of contruction work.

Ombeni and I are officially married, well at least we assume we are. In the eyes of the Lutheran Church of Tanzania we are, and that is good enough for us, but who knows about the U.S. We may have to do this all over again back in the States. I don't think I can handle a wedding mulligan. Being the center of attention and smiling all day for photos and being manhandled by Ombeni's friends and relatives was exhausting.

I also sort of hated my dress. It was wrong for my hourglass-on-acid figure. But it was purchased online in a rush three days before I left for Africa. I had spent several days looking feverishly for a simple, elegant wedding dress for a woman over 35. These do not exist, at least not in Omaha, Nebraska. Everything is strapless with riotous poofs of ruffles and lace and ridiculousness. I have curves, people, work with me!

I wish the fabulous Tim Gunn, my fashion fairy godfather, would have magically appeared at my hotel room door, frowned, folded his arms and said, "This concerns me," then produced the ideal dress that fit me perfectly and made me look soignee. But everyone in Tanzania wears ill-fitting garments, so I fit right in. I just gave in and went with it and had a good time. If I squint at the photos, I think I look OK.

The best part of the day's festivities came when the "champange presenter" did his bit. In Tanzania, it is traditional for a friend who is a good dancer and a bit of a natural entertainer to grab a bottle of bubbly, wave it around, shake his booty and have several guests touch the bottle to give it a sort of blessing--like a profane version of the Torah being brought around the synagogue. Ibrahim (seen at right) knows how to move. Once the shaken bottle was unleashed, the bubbly gave everyone in the vicinity a sticky shower. It was like winning the World Series.

There was also a lot of ululating and country music at the wedding party. These are not two things that normally go together, the way, say, chocolate and peanut butter do. But the Tanzanians love to dance to country music, and these people know how to cut a rug. The women with the biggest butts shake them the most, and they are proud of their ample posteriors. Ombeni says the greatest compliment one can pay a Tanzanian woman is to tell her she is large. "Any woman will be so proud if you tell her that." I decided not to pay any of my wedding guests such a compliment. And fortunately, no one happily told me I looked large.

And because this is Africa, we had a power outage during the reception. We made do with candlelight, and everyone just drank and ate more until a generator was found at a nearby farm and the music returned. While things were still dark and everyone was getting properly hydrated, Ombeni's brother informed me that my marriage to his sibling means I also am his wife. This was accompanied by what looked to me like a lascivious smile. But because I marked "monogamous marriage" on the wedding license, I am going to presume that Ombeni's brother and I had a lost-in-translation moment.

One crazy Tanzanian husband is enough for me.

Let's eat!

Emilyro — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 18:34:47 GMT

Mom and I got stupidly excited when we saw the bottle of Heinz 57 on the table at the new cafe in town.

Arusha, Tanzania, is not known for its fine dining. People don't land here and say, "Driver, take me to the best spot in town for Ethiopian cuisine." There is a place for Ethiopian food, but like many restaurants in town, it never seems to be open, or perhaps it never has customers. Another African mystery.

A lot of restaurants in town try to be all things to all people. There is a restaurant that boasts of its fine Italian, Mexican and Indian dishes. One place insists it has Japanese, Thai and traditional African food. The menus at these global places require two hands to heft. It's mind boggling seeing pad Thai alongside fettucine alfredo and palak paneer. If you ask what is good or which style of cuisine reigns supreme in that kitchen, in the hope of narrowing down your choices to something reasonable, you are told that everything is good. Well, most things are merely OK, but we have found a few favorites, including an eatery that has a nice spinach pizza that is listed in the menu as "green pizz."

The Heinz 57 we found at the new spot, which has quickly become our go-to place when we need to satisfy our french fry or veggie burger or quiche fix. I never thought I would miss something as mundane as real ketchup. Until now we had been haunted by this runny substance known as tomato sauce, which is what Tanzanians use for ketchup. This is unacceptable, for how can one dredge a fry in a runny tomato product? It ain't right. We worship at the altar of the Heinz bottle.

As for traditional African food, we have eaten a nice local dish that is made of beans, rice and something that seems to be spinach. It is fairly bland, but with liberal amounts of pili pili (a hot sauce), we are happy. Another popular local dish is ugali, which I do not recommend unless one enjoys wallpaper paste. It has the consistency of porridge, but none of the charm. To eat ugali properly, one must grab a handful of the colorless substance, stick some beans or rice or other food into the center and then form a ball out of all of it. Then it's devoured. It's like playing with one's food, and it's rather gross. My fiance and his friends are aghast that mom and I don't fancy ugali. They also find it odd that I am troubled by eating a whole fish, complete with head and glassy eyes and bones. I feel like apologizing to the fish for what has happened to him. I don't want anything I'm eating to have a face. I feel better when I can pretend that the meat arrived cut up and pretty and violence-free on my table.

We are having our wedding party at a colorful restaurant just outside of town, in Massai territory. Because it's not far from the parks, the lodge serves game meat. I was dubious at first, but antelope and other critters are plentiful and can be hunted legally. This violated my rule against eating animals that I think are cool or pretty or interesting, but I figured, when in Rome. ... So I dived into some eland, which is a large antelope creature. It was delicious and, yes, it tasted a bit like chicken. I don't think I can bring myself to eat zebra, though. They are too much like horses and would remind me of "My Friend Flicka" while chowing down.

As for our home cooking, we have a device that is essentially a toaster oven with two burners on top. Cooking is difficult because we don't have enough electricity to have a light, the fridge and the stove on at the same time. Even with the lights off and fridge turned down, the stove takes about 25 minutes to warm up. If we want something heated up quickly, we fire up the kerosene stove, which is like a crude camp stove. There is no controlling the flames and it smells awful, but it does the job. It also blackens the bottom of all our pans. Good thing I left the Calphalon at home.

A death in Arusha

Emilyro — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 18:21:29 GMT

One of our neighbors has died. No one seems to know the cause of death, and this is not something that Tanzanians consider important to suss out. In America, the first question one asks when hearing of a death is, "How did it happen?" Not here.

Death, for the most part, is simply accepted here, where death is sadly common. When my fiance's mother died at age 62, I asked him how she died. Ombeni didn't know and no one asked the doctor. He and his siblings assume she had a heart attack because she had high blood pressure and some sort of heart condition, but knowing the exact cause of death doesn't really matter to them. She is dead. That is it. They mourn and they move on. They feel the absence, but they accept that death is natural. So natural, in fact, that bodies often are buried in front or back yards. We have a body in our back yard, amid the corn. Ombeni has no idea who she was; apparently the casket was buried there before Ombeni bought the land. There are garish pink plastic flowers on the grave and a white cross with her name and dates of birth and death. She was only 28.

I was able to glean from Ombeni and others that our neighbor was in his early 40s and had been bed-ridden for quite some time with a mysterious ailment. He also had lost interest in eating. That's all anyone seems to know. Apparently he wasn't well-known in the neighborhood, but that didn't preclude hundreds of people from showing up to mourn with the family. They streamed into the yard early in the morning and stayed for three days. All the furniture in the house was moved into the yard and a giant tarp was strung from the trees to help shade the mourners. A large cauldron of strong tea was hoisted over a fire and several banana trees were chopped down to make room for everyone. Men and women sat around talking and drinking tea--it was a bit like an Irish wake, but with no booze.

After three days of this--during which time the guests slept on the ground or wandered home for a few hours of sleep--the funeral service was held in the yard. The casket was gleaming white with gold trim and was covered with purple flowers and streamers, like a macabre parade float. There were several hours of singing and praying and what sounded like eulogies. People sat patiently in the hot sun or stood under the tarp. Even children were quiet during the long service.

After the last prayer and as the singing tapered off, people began making their way home, some wandering past our house. The women were dressed in their finest, most colorful wraps and the men wore their shiny polyester suits, most of them horrifyingly ill-fitting. Some stopped to admire our rock garden; no one ever seems to be in a hurry here.

Maybe they realize that life is short--at the risk of being terribly cliche--so they want to take everything in while they can.

On the move

Emilyro — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 18:26:20 GMT

Tanzania may move slowly, but it is always in motion. And the people who are moving are usually carrying something or pushing something or pulling something at the same time.

Skinny men pull crude wooden carts full of shoes, bricks, chairs, pineapples or live goats. Women glide by with huge baskets of mangoes or bananas on their heads. The number and weight of things that can be carried on the head is astounding: big stacks of wood, sacks of rice, buckets of water and bundles of corn. Chiropractors who come to Africa must be horrified. Carrying things on the head typically is a female-only endeavour, so I decided to try it. (The fellows at left are shlepping 30-50-pound bundles of camping gear up Mt. Kilimanjaro. They are hired by climbers to do the heavy lifting.)

It turns out I can carry a small sack of dog food on my head, and only if I position it just right and walk very slowly. I failed at carrying a basket, even an empty one. My fiance and his friends burst out laughing when they saw my attempts at head-carrying. "Mzungu (white people) can't do this thing," Ombeni told me. He may be right. I think it's something hard-wired into Africans. They are so graceful and I am so gawky and clumsy.

Last night the men who make furniture at a shop near our home came walking down the dusty road to our house with a big table and chairs that Ombeni had ordered. Let me emphasize: They came WALKING down the road, carrying a heavy table and four chairs that weigh at least 40 pounds each. The distance from the furniture shop to our house is almost a mile. They didn't even break a sweat.

Today the big movement at our house is the completion of the wall around our little compound. Trucks rumbled up at dawn. Cement blocks, rocks, shovels, bags of cement and workmen tumbled out. The workers stopped to admire the rock garden that mom and I planted. Rock gardens are something of a novelty here. To Tanzanians, rocks are for useful pursuits, such as building walls and driving stray dogs away. They are not decorative.

We also wanted to put a coffee plant we found in our back yard in our garden, which puzzled our handyman friend. "The coffee plant is not for gardens; it is for picking the beans." We just like the look of the coffee plants, but I suppose putting one in a garden would be like planting a stalk of corn in one's yard back in the States.

Our rock garden is the sensation of the neighborhood. Maybe mom and I will become landscape artists. The weather is perfect year-round for things that grow and there is no shortage of hibiscus, ficus trees, jade plants, jacaranda trees, pretty grasses, lillies and geraniums. The soil is so rich and dark here; everything flourishes.

Mom and I are beginning to flourish as well.

Africa mysteries

Emilyro — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 17:27:59 GMT

I can't figure out why a bottle of good wine costs only $8 in Arusha, Tanzania, but a box of bad corn flakes is about $10. This just encourages me to drink more.

There are many such head-scratchers in East Africa, things that my mother, who lives here with me, and I refer to as AFRICA MYSTERIES. I always think of it in dramatic all-caps like that. Also under the AFRICA MYSTERIES header is why Africa time means one must add 45 minutes to any given time of arrival. A friend says he will come to dinner at 6, but that truly means 6:45, or possibly 7. We have learned not to be ready at an appointed hour. People here say, "No hurry in Africa," and it's useless to fight it. I do feel myself relaxing by degrees here and no longer looking at the clock. My watches are still in my luggage.

Another mystery is the "street security." The other night we were awakened by the security team marching through our part of the neighborhood blowing horns and whistles and shrieking "Thieves!" Every dog in the area began barking furiously. My fiance, Ombeni, says that they were hunting for thieves, but their tactics seemed odd. If I were a thief, I would find it easy to evade a group of men who were yelling and blowing horns. The other bizarre bit about that night was the fact that no one turned on their lights or came to their doors, blinking sleep from their eyes and wondering what was happening. People just accept things here, no matter how strange.

Then there is the Massai man who comes to our home several times a week and chats with us in Swahili for several minutes. This despite the fact that we don't speak Swahili. I have learned to say a few things, but it's painfully obvious that we don't understand him. Still, he must feel better getting whatever it is off his chest.

Today we went to KLM to change our tickets. We have decided to stay until July, at which point we will have pretty much exhausted our savings. We want to spend more time with Ombeni, who is a safari guide and will be home more often now that the rainy season is beginning. We want to finish the house and move Ombeni's nephew into the little bedroom so he doesn't have to stay with the handyman any longer. It's amazing how generous and gracious Tanzanians are. The handyman has been putting Jimmy up for months. That sort of kindness and generosity of spirit happens all the time here. For instance, I would be typing this post on Ombeni's laptop, but a friend needed one at university, so Ombeni handed his over. If Ombeni needs a car, he gets on his cell phone and one just appears in our driveway a short time later. Hopefully all this goodwill will rub off on me.

Right now I am trying not to let the tickle of concern and fear about not having a job get the best of me. I quit my job in Chicago in mid-December for reasons that seemed to make sense then. I keep reminding myself of those reasons now as I read a two-day old International Herald Tribune and see how bad the economy is and how many people are losing their jobs. Will there be anything for a longtime newspaper editor to do back home? It may have been foolhardy to quit a good job and put everything in storage and come to East Africa for six months, but what the hell. It's an adventure, and the regret of not trying is a terrible thing.

Will edit for food.

The beginning

Emilyro — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 08:31:52 GMT

I don't know which team won the Super Bowl, who wore something wretched at the Oscars or who is dating the Olsen twins.

I live in Africa.

I moved here two months ago and have been in a news and entertainment vacuum since my plane touched down in Kilimanjaro, Tanzania. I used to care what my hair looked like and whether I was wearing something pleasant and whether Nicole Kidman's baby is cute. I had a good editing job and got pedicures and went out to dinner. Now I care about whether I will have enough water pressure to take a hot shower, when the electricity will come back on and how to avoid melanoma. These seem to me to be more valid concerns at this time.

I had a nice iMac at home and could decadently spend hours online. Now I have to ride a slightly smelly and very overcrowded and somewhat dangerous minibus to the center of Arusha, the city where I live, and then walk about a mile to use a computer at an Internet cafe. After making that trek, I no longer feel the impulse to go to gofugyourself.com to see what Bai Ling and Jessica Simpson are wearing. Mostly I just check my email, hoping to find out why the company that dropped my furniture on the street, Midway in Chicago, refuses to pay me for said furniture. After all, I didn't fail to secure the side door of the moving van. I have found that I can't fight city hall from Africa, though.

Little did I know that that experience would set the tone for my first few weeks here. After breathing in the lovely warm air of Tanzania and arriving at my fiance's home, I discovered that a large jar of honey and a pepper grinder had been opened by airport security and then were not closed and taped shut again. Honey and pepper leave a nasty residue in one's suitcase. My fiance scrubbed my suitcase and its contents for days.

There was no water for several days in the house and the electricty winked on and off. Also, there was no furniture, save for two beds. Then, to add to my litany of woes, the books that I had spent almost $200 to ship to Tanzania were wiped out in a deluge of fetid water that somehow made its way into the house. At least there wasn't any furniture to damage. Some of the books were salvageable and spent several days drying on the porch, their pages eventually becoming crisp and wrinkled and waving in the breeze. I wept every time I looked at them. My meltdown wasn't pretty.

My fiance, a tour guide, promptly left on safari. My mother and I were left with the local handyman, who speaks little English, to help us make our way to market and to buy a fridge and a stove. When we got home, we discovered that there were no outlets in which to plug in our new appliances. It took a few days to find the electrician, who spends most of the money he makes on the local rotgut vodka, which comes in plastic packets. An electrician who is half in the bag shouldn't be doing any wiring, but we were desperate. Somehow it got done and no one was injured.

I used to rail and scream and rend my garments over these things. But at some point Africa works its charm, or maybe it just wears one down. I now shrug or laugh when a little crisis rears its ugly head. My fiance, a Tanzanian with an infinite reserve of patience, says, "I knew everything would be great for you eventually." I have to smile at that. I love the people here, with their easy smiles and warm ways and their ability to never get upset. I love the blameless blue skies and the open-air markets with their baskets of fragrant spices and fresh fruits, and the way the gorgeous yellow birds sit on our wall under the banana trees. I like the emaciated puppies (seen above) who decided to live on our porch; I enjoy feeding them and watching their tails wag furiously. I like eating fresh fruit; I haven't had anything processed in weeks and am losing weight. The East Africa Diet is successful.

My friend Joyce gave me a magnet once that reads, "Leap and the net will appear." I put it on our fridge here, once Mr. Vodka put in an outlet. I think I detect the beginnings of a net here. Maybe.

I still am pissed off about my books, though.