Went running with my room mate this morning before it got too hot. It was actually quite nice except I’m not a good runner. I can swim 60 half laps (which I did last night – so good to go swimming again), but running…pff….
***
As I was walking to the office today, two guys said hi to each other. And then “where’s the Chinese person going?” My daily activities have officially turned into a greeting now. Great.
Finger-crossing for a new job here in Dar es Salaam. Please, just tell me the answer already!
It was a friend’s farewell dinner the other night. We agreed to go to a certain nearby restaurant.
The restaurant was dark. A young girl sat at the entrance, which was blocked by two tables. So I sat down and asked if it was closed. She said yes, they rest on Tuesdays. Deciding that I should just wait for my friends to come, I tried to chat with her. I say ‘try’ because usually it just ends up with me saying the same Swahili phrases and not understanding anything substantial from the conversation.
It turns out that Hebi (I think that’s how her name is spelt) is from Malawi. She’s working in Dar for six months to earn enough money for one semester of her university tuition back in Malawi. She’s a social work studies student. Her aunt agreed to support part of her education, but she had to find the rest of the money. Probably a freshman, she has three to four years of university to finish before graduating.
“Wow, you travelled all the way here to find work? How long have you been in Dar es Salaam?” Intrigued, I couldn’t help being nosy.
Hebi has only been in Dar for a month. She speaks no Swahili and can’t find a job other than cleaning. Currently, she’s working at one of my favourite pizza restaurants down the street. I said I don’t think I’ve seen her before. Oh, that’s because she’s always in the kitchen, cleaning. She needs to work hard to save up money.
How much does she have to save up for tuition for a semester (which I think is 6 months)? “My aunt will contribute 20,000 Tanzanian Shillings. I will need to come up with 30,000,” came the answer. That’s $20 USD. She came all the way to Tanzania to earn $20. It would take her 6 months.
Speechless. My friends’ arrival at that moment allowed to me to slip away with a polite good bye, allowed me to not respond.
To be honest, I didn’t know how to. I had spent that amount on dining out the past two days.
*****I’m writing this not as a rich little brat who hasn’t ever tried to understand how the vast majority of the country lives. I know a lot of the hardships. I’ve talked to many people, albeit through a translator, both in the village and in Dar. I’m also very aware of the power dynamic between foreigners and locals. I usually like to think of myself as having a good grasp on the challenges of human dynamics in development work. I’ve had similar moments before, like when I found out that the secondary school in Nyandira (the village I stayed at last year) had 200 students and 4 biology books and no science teacher. One book costs 10,000 Tanzanian Shillings ($7 USD). School fees are 20,000 Tsh ($13.5 USD) for 6 months, yet paying them is the top problem every parent and child would tell me. I know this. But this recent exchange particularly surprised me. Maybe because she was the first Malawian I’ve talked to. Maybe because I could communicate directly. Maybe because it was at that pizza restaurant.******
**I wrote this post a long time ago and totally forgot to post it!**
On Christmas day, I received the most heart-warming present. Not only was it tear-jerking, it was also delivered at the exact time I needed a little boost. My friends are too amazing for words.
I’ve been a little bit homesick for a while. Not the full-blown ‘I-don’t-care-(insert whiny voice)-just-get-me-on-a-plane’ kind of homesick. Just missing family and friends. Missing those conversations that make me the happiest person in the world. Missing communication that doesn’t require words, because you know each other’s emotions and gestures inside out. I wasn’t surprised when this hit; it always comes and always quietly sneaks away.
And, I guess, to compensate, as one of wiser friends pointed out, I socialize, socialize, and socialize. I mean, I love my friends here – they’re interesting, intelligent, and fun. It’s not, though, the same kind of friendship that I have with people I’ve known for years. Maybe it’s endearment, maybe it’s the ‘test of time,’ maybe it’s just habitual comfort, but my friends over the years mean a lot to me. In some ways, they are part of me. Yet, socializing is draining. For an introvert (or maybe an ambivert), socializing doesn’t charge my batteries as for extroverts. As much as I love meeting new people and ‘going out’ I need equal, if not more, time alone. I haven’t had quality alone time for a while.
So when this pink eye and fever hit, it might have been a blessing in disguise. I was forced to stay home. It took me a few days to get into ‘alone mode.’
You know, there was this huge debate online when the Tiger Mom article came out. “She’s right!” screamed one side. “She’s insane” rallied the other. I followed the debates like a little kid following the Magic School Bus – eyes glued and fascinated.
I, quite obviously, lean to the side where parents shouldn’t be so stereotypically Asian. I would have given up ‘being a good kid’ a long time ago if I had been forced through Amy Chua’s regime. I have to say, my parents did a great job balancing the sugar with the vinegar – in fact, I don’t really remember them saying anything when I didn’t practice my piano or finish my homework. And probably because of that, I almost always enjoyed my homework (hah! geek from birth), but almost never practiced my piano. And of course, there were no amount of threats that could keep me away from the horse stable.
Then, I read this article that supported Tiger Mom (or in this case, Dad).
She talks about how her dad forced her to practise tennis until everything was perfect. In the process, she developed such a hate for tennis that “When I step onto a court, I go through PTSD.” But who cares? She can do perfectly precise backhands.
I thought about writing a huge reply according to my guttural distaste for this kind of parenting. But it really boils down to this point:
I’d rather be crappy at playing the piano than hate playing at all.
I came to this realisation recently. I was listening to the amazing piano solo The Hours by Philip Glass, and my fingers were just itching to try out this piece. I jokingly told my friend that if I could play The Hours, I would die a happy person. I hadn’t had a feeling for wanting to play the piano for maybe a year.
I have to admit, I really do suck at playing the piano. Music rhythms and notes don’t come naturally to me. I can never remember any piece by heart. Plus I hate practicing. It’s not a good combination. I took lessons for maybe 6 years (?) and am still at a very low level. Part of the reason, I suspect, was because my piano teachers in Hong Kong only ever wanted me to take more piano exams. They pushed me to practice and I rebelled. During the years when I took classes, every time I sat in front of a piano, I felt a resistance. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself. Yet, it was only after I stopped taking classes that I started enjoying the piano once more. I would play the songs I already knew, over and over and over again. (Rather like my preference of listening to the same song for hours on end.) Sitting by myself, just listening to the notes coming from the movement of my hand. I didn’t care if the songs were simple. I didn’t care that I couldn’t do fancy techniques. I just enjoyed my time with my crappy music.
I wouldn’t trade perfect playing with this kind of joy.
I think it’s ridiculous to say that your enjoyment of certain activities only comes after you become good at said activity. I’d say that my enjoyment of music would be lower than the Dead Sea if I were forced to practice until perfection.