The Boys (of Chabad) are Back in Town

I was totally bummed when an e-mail arrived from Chabad's Africa headquarters announcing that two more rabbis would be coming to Tanzania for Pesach if only because I would miss a prime blogging opportunity. So while the kids and I continue to enjoy a bit of vacation in the US, my friend Ruth has gratefully agreed to guest blog for me about the latest rabbinical mission to Tanzania for Passover. Thank you, Ruth!

Finding a vibrant – if small – Jewish community in Tanzania has been one of the many pleasant surprises that has marked my time here. As has been recounted on this blog, the focal person of this community is incomparable Penina, Israeli matriarch and owner of the atmospheric Middle Eastern restaurant Nargila on the peninsula.

Penina most recently gathered the tribe at Yom Kippur, but sadly I was out of town so did not get to take part in Shmuli's Big Yom Kippur Adventure. So, I was happy last week when Hally forwarded me an email from the "boys of Chabad" (as they called themselves) informing her that they were coming for Passover and asking her to tell all the Jews of Dar.

For the uninitiated, Chabad is a Hasidic movement of Orthodox Judaism. As far as I can tell, Chabad is the closest Jews get to missionaries. While they don't proselytize, they try to gather "lost" Jews and help get them on track to be more observant. The rabbis that Chabad dispatches to far-flung places such as Tanzania tend to be young and still in rabbinical training. As I joked to my housemate Michelle, Chabad is a bit like Peace Corps for Orthodox Jews. She informed me that Chabad actually does have a program called "Mitzvah Corps."

Two years ago, I attended my first Passover Seder at Nargila with the Jews of Dar. This Seder was officiated by two timid Chabad rabbis from Brooklyn who were no match for Penina. It did not help when one of them clearly began showing symptoms of malaria as he was supposed to be leading us in prayer. The official business was cut short after the rabbis finally gave into complaints from hungry Israelis that the food was burning and would they just get on with it.

Last year, there were no Chabadniks, and so the Israelis ran the show, almost all in Hebrew, which made things less fun for those of us who only vaguely know the Passover story in English.

But this year, Chabad gave us Meyer. Big, friendly, joke-cracking Meyer, with the beautiful singing voice. I was particularly fond of Meyer after it was revealed within the first five minutes of our meeting that we had both grown up in the same neighborhood (Squirrel Hill) of the same city (Pittsburgh). And indeed he looked just like the guys I used to see going to Kosher Mart on Murray Avenue in big beat-up station wagons with "MOSHIACH NOW!" bumper stickers.

(Meyer came with another smaller, quieter rabbi, but so overshadowed was he that none of us can even remember his name.)

This year's Seder was particularly impressive in that there were nearly 60 people in attendance. I asked Penina's eldest daughter how they found all these Jews and she just shook her head and said, "They found us!"

The small American contingent included three 19-year-olds traveling the world on a "gap year" before starting college in the Fall. They seemed rather exhausted from their travels, but maybe it was just from the 8-hour bus ride they had taken from Moshi that day to get to Dar in time for Seder.

There were also two very sweet British couples, a Scandinavian woman, and a whole lot of Israelis. It was very amusing to observe the contrast between the rabbis and the Israelis, most of whom are very secular – at least in outward appearance. Whereas Michelle and I had taken care to dress "appropriately" in long skirts and conservative tops, many of the Israeli women sported tight pants, low-cut, sequined tops, and dark lipstick.

One particularly amusing tableau was at the end of the Seder, when Meyer was trying valiantly to finish the prayers. As he swayed and chanted in Hebrew, an Israeli woman who had left the table looked on from the bar with a bemused expression, cigarette in hand.

In addition to Rabbi Meyer, one of the more memorable characters was the guy sitting across from me, who I'll call "Jacques Cousteau." Jacques is a 40-ish freelance Scuba diving instructor, currently based on Mafia Island. He exhibited the classic Israeli trait of frankness, explaining that, "when most people think of Tanzania, they think it is going to be so exotic, but let me tell you, Mafia is a really shitty place."

When he was done complaining, Jacques showed off his party trick, which was to tell people what their "Jewish birthday" is. For instance, after I told him I was born on June 30, 1982, he screwed up his face for about two minutes and then pronounced, "Wednesday, Tammuz 9!"

And thus, I learned something new at the Seder, which is fitting with the spirit of Passover, and of Judaism, which encourages us to always continue learning and questioning.

What the Fuck Have I Done? Two Years On.

Jaden and Rowan then and now...



Two years ago today I sat down at my computer desk, in my comfortable uptown Washington, DC apartment, and wrote my first posting on this blog.

At the time I was scared shitless about a major life altering decision. I had just agreed to move to Tanzania - a place I only peripherally knew - with my small kids, to a new job with a new company.

Holy crap, it was a big decision.

Two years on I now know it was the best decision of my life. That step into the abyss has changed my life in only positive ways. That’s not to say that there haven’t been hardships. But for all the many many challenges of my life in Tanzania there are three or four positive counterpoints.

I live in a tropical paradise… with weekends spent on sandy white, turquoise water beaches, or in the pool five steps from my front door. I have a job that I like. I drive a big car that handles the waist-deep water of the rainy season with ease, haven’t cleaned my own toilet in two years, and am blessed with many wonderful friends and colleagues.

My kids run wild and free, chasing geikos and millipedes. They are tow-headed and tan all year long. They don’t remember what it feels like to be cold.

They think there is a fundi to fix every problem. Like last week when Jaden picked up a small geiko in my bedroom and its tail came off – which is an instictive protective response. Jaden came running to me in the living room, quite upset, to say that the geiko needed a fundi to put its tail back on.

I’m not a religious person, but I feel blessed - or whatever the agnostic version of being blessed happens to be.

Shoot me if my Pollyanna attitude is annoying you, You might not like it, but you’ll just have to deal with it. That’s just what I am

So in celebration of my two year blog anniversary I’ve done two things.

I’ve compiled a list of links to my favorite Mahlers on Safari posts out of the 90 I've written in the past two years. It was hard to select just a few, so feel free to pick and choose from the titles that interest you. I hope you enjoy them.

And, in the spirit of leaping in to the abyss anew I’ve cut off more than a foot of my hair! Well… Brian at the Sea Cliff salon cut off my hair. I think I like it. Everyone says I look 10 years younger. You’ll just have to wait to see it.

And before I end, I need to give my annual shout-out to Liz (a.k.a. Mom-101), who inspired me to start blogging and continues to wow me everyday with her writing, her parenting, her business acumen, and her own many leaps off the edge in pursuit of her bliss.

Asante sana for sticking with me, and happy reading.

The Original Post

What the Fuck Have I Done?
March 2006

Posts About the Expat Life

Happy 8th of July
July 2006
Sometimes “Progress” is Assbackwards
October 2006
Abode of Peace or Port Charles
October 2006
When the Rest of the World Rejoices
November 2006
The Education of Hally Mahler
December 2006
Something Stinks in Here
December 2006
Hot Stuff
Feb 2007
What the Fuck Have I Done – One Year Later
March 2007
The Nanny Diaries
May 2007
Swahili School Drop Out
May 2007
Rocket’s Red Glare
July 2007
Not So Faithful
July 2007
A Member of the Club
October 2007
A Member of the Club, Part II. The Insurgency
December 2007
A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two Bushes
February 2008

Posts About Being Jewish in Africa

When You Are the Only Jew for Miles Around
June 2006
Wherever there is Coca-Cola there Are Jews
August 2006
Dayanu
April 2007
Smuli’s Big Yom Kippur Adventure
September 2007

Posts About Parenting But Still Being Myself

Mama Wa Wili and the Battle for Independent Hally
August 2006
Daddy
January 2007
Tick Tock – Time to Close Up Shop
December 2007

Posts About Travel

The Old Me (Except the Old Me Didn't Come with All this Guilt)
October 2007
Seven Hours in Lagos
November 2007

Other Topics

The Club Formally Known as Book
April 2007

There Are Gays in Iran!

The sun was already low in the sky, reflecting off the powder-white sand sifting between our toes, when David and I set out on our desert safari.

The scene was pristine. Just David, me, the cloudless sky and the rolling sands dunes…

And oh yeah… about 150 other people packed like sardines… eight to a Land Cruiser… flying like bats out of hell across the desert. We were up and down and all around the dunes at every possible angle. Cars often role over, they told us, which is why they travel in packs of 15 cars at a time. That way if you roll, there are lots of people to swarm out onto the sand to pull out your crumpled body and presumably roll your car back upright.

Laurence of Arabia, we were not.

This is what they call a desert safari. I wouldn’t exactly call it fun, or even exciting, but it was indeed unique. Well… unique and cheesy as hell.

Dubai is a common “get out of dodge” destination stop for those of us living in Dar. It is a bizarro world combination of the West with an exotic Arabian cache, and only five short flying hours from home. Dubai offered the promise of air conditioned shopping malls, filthy rich sheiks, interesting modern architecture, and best of all – it was the most convenient half-way point to meet up with my friend, David, who lives in Mumbai, India.

Before I left for vacation, my mother nervously asked me if I thought that David and I would be comfortable being ourselves in Dubai. After all, I’m a fat Jew and David is a somewhat obviously gay man – not two groups often associated with fun times on the Arabian Peninsula.

“What do you think Dubai will be like?” I challenged her.

“Las Vegas,” she replied.

“Well… do you think that David and I would stand out in Las Vegas?” I wondered.

Touché!

It turns out my mother was right about one thing… Dubai most resembles Las Vegas in that everything is big, glizy, and way over-the-top. It is a city that just pops up out of the desert. And as if to drive home the point, Celine Dion was even playing in concert that week.

In so many ways Dubai is the city of the future. It is something massive built out of nothing. A place where (I’ve been told) it costs more to desalinate a liter of water than extract a liter of oil from the sands. The buildings were monumental and sometimes fascinating. We were told that 1/3rd of all the world’s construction cranes are in Dubai and based on what I saw I totally believe it. The malls were huge and filled with all sorts of goodies like Starbucks and MAC make-up and Nike stores.

Let me just tell you… it was heaven on earth for a frustrated shopper living in Tanzania.

Alas, my credit card bill can testify to the reason why they call the place “Do Buy”.

And, the rumors are true. There is a massive indoor (inside a shopping mall) ski slope. It was mind numbingly impressive – and so huge that I couldn’t even see the top of the “mountain”. Not being a skier myself (and therefore not being willing to pay the $100 to spend the day skiing) I didn’t go inside. But as you wander the mall there are many overlook points – where you can see the people inside snowboarding downhill, riding the skill lift back up, sliding down the ice shoots, and building snow men in the kiddy area.

I don’t even have the words to explain this engineering marvel. It left me speechless.

Of course the best part of the trip was catching up with David – who I hadn’t seen in nearly a year. It turns out that 80% of the people that live in Dubai are not from the United Arab Emirates, and it seems that the vast majority of those non-Emiratis are Indian – so David actually had a chance to introduce me to many aspects of his life in India via the people we interacted with in the hotel, in shops and in restaurants. We had a lovely weekend – the kind you can only have when you and the person you are with have a year of life to catch up on and the luxury of time to do it. We walked and talked, shopped and talked, smoked hookah and talked, ate and talked, lay around the hotel and talked…. You get the picture. I felt young and very alive – the way you can with an old friend who you met the first day of college. Well, that was until a 21-year-old asked us how long we’ve known each other and the answer was one year longer than he is old.

That part wasn’t so fun.

On our last day together we did the desert safari, knowing that it would be touristy, but wanting to experience the desert together, nevertheless.

The Land Cruiser that picked us up at our hotel that afternoon was already packed with people when we got in. Our driver was a modern Arabian cowboy – he had long greasy hair and a three-day old beard – just David’s type. I couldn’t quite place the language that everyone else in the car spoke. I didn’t think it was Arabic but it seemed to be somewhat related. An hour later when we arrived in the desert at our “Bedouin Camp”, the home base for our cheesy adventure, there were suddenly 100 or maybe even 200 of them – all chatting in an unknown language as they rode ATVs up and down the nearby hills, got their names written in sand in bottles, or took a camel ride.

And then, a young man attached himself to David. The guy was cute, in his early twenties, and spoke just enough English to introduce himself and have a simple conversation. Turns out he was an anesthesiology student, absolutely edible, and totally Iranian. And he wasn’t alone… the rest of our temporary Bedouin friends were also Iranian. Go figure.

The squeal of David’s and my gaydar was practically audible. Was this guy gay?

Well… if you believe Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of course he wasn’t. There are no gays in Iran.

But David and I can testify that there are gay Iranians – but perhaps not technically in Iran. And two weeks ago, the Iranian gay guy drove up and down the dunes of the United Arab Emirates, drank a beer with some new American friends, showed two relative strangers photos of guys kissing in Terhan, watched some belly dancing, and ate a fabulous barbecue… all with a fat Jew and a gay American.

But he doesn’t have to worry about us letting his secret out. We got him covered.

I can't tell you what happens in Tehran. But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

David and I in the desert

Leaving my footprint on the Arabian Peninsula

Riding across the desert at every angle

Belly dancing

Ski Dubai

Welcome to the Potty Zone

Jaden: [With a glint in his eye] Mommy, what do you want on your pizza, poo poo or pee pee?

Rowan: [Very serious] Mommy likes pee pee.

Jaden: [Big smile] No, Mommy wants poo poo!

Me: [Exacerbated] Do I have to have one or the other? Can’t I just have a plain margarita pizza?

Welcome to Hally’s wonderful world of four year-old twins!

Just when I got excited that the kids can finally hold extended dinner conversations, they entered the twilight zone of the poo poo and pee pee years.

This Mama Wa Wili is knee deep in shit.

At first it was funny. I even participated actively in the conversations, drawing on the Socratic method and learning strategies; I thought if these conversations are a natural part of growing up, at least I can use poo poo and pee pee to create learning moments.

Jaden: There is poo poo by that tree!

Rowan: No, there is pee pee by that tree!

Jaden: You are pee pee, Rowan.

Rowan: No, you are poo poo, Jaden, and that’s not a tree. Its a forest.

Me: Hey you guys, if poo poo falls in the forest and no one hears it will it make a noise?

Jaden and Rowan: [Together] Mommy’s poo poo!

They’re right, of course. It was crap to even attempt it.

I am amazed at the breadth and depth of the poo poo conversations; at the seemingly unlimited ability for pee pee to hold their undivided attention. At times I am even grateful for poo poo and pee pee talk – as they are moments when no one is fighting, no one is taking the other’s toys, and both children are usually smiling and enjoying each other’s company.

The poo poo and pee pee conversations have even gone so far as to get incorporated into their limited Swahili. For example, yesterday our housekeeper, Margaret, dropped a glass in the kitchen and a piece of it embedded in her leg. We rushed her to the clinic where she got 5 stitches.

Here, when anything bad happens, if someone is sick, or even if someone misses a bus, we say in Swahili, pole sana, meaning so sorry. You can also just say pole (sorry) for short. Naturally, we were pole sanaing Margaret all day yesterday until Jaden decided to pole poo poo instead – roughly sorry for your shit. Margaret and the rest of the staff were totally charmed, and gave Jaden the laughs and poo poo encouragement he seems to crave these days.

As for me, I’ve decided to try to relax and enjoy the age of pee pee. It keeps my brain young, even as my 40+ body is feeling old. But I do find myself wondering how far I should take this?

Should I encourage them to stop?

Should I let them talk poo poo and pee pee but not get involved myself?

Or should I participate - encouraging them to see the intrinsic value of poo poo as a substance used to help grow plants, start a fire for cooking, or someday, to run a car?

OK… perhaps that’s taking it too far.

I don’t want you to accuse me of being full of shit.





The culprits.

A Bird in the Hand IS Worth Two Bushes

The madness started on Christmas Eve when I overheard a whispered conversation between two friends who work for the US Embassy in Dar.

Picture me on the patio of a large house decorated for Christmas in the tropics. I was dressed for the special occasion and sweating profusely.

I had spent the past five minutes trying to figure out where the kids disappeared to; searching the dark corners to make sure they weren’t torturing a dog with kindness or picking up giant millipedes with their bare hands. In my hot wet confusion I was standing behind a big plant next to the eggnog bowl when I heard…

Person 1: [Leaning in close to whisper in her co-conspirator’s ear, but not quietly enough that I can’t hear them from behind the plant] So, I hear you got stuck with the initial planning?

Person 2: [Almost spitting] Yeah. These VIP trips are all-consuming. My life is going to be crazy for the next few months.

Person 1: Are you kidding? Everyone’s lives are going to be crazy. Watch out Dar es Salaam…

Being the indiscrete gossip hoarder that I am, I jumped out from the shadows, to ask:

Me: [Excitedly] Yeah? So who exactly is coming??? Bono? Dick Cheney? Bill Clinton?

Person 1: [Rolling her eyes at me for my lack of discretion] I can’t tell you. But knowing you, you’ll figure it out soon enough. But I can promise you it is no one as exciting as Bono.

Me: Because if it’s Bono I have some brothels I want to take him to see.

Persons 1 and 2: [Eyes rolling] You and your brothels!

Now I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t think about this conversation during the three weeks that followed as my family visited and we traveled around Tanzania. More than once I wondered who the bigwig was.

And then, the day after I got back from vacation, I got a call. I was urgently required at the Embassy. I needed to be there in an hour.

Let me tell you that as popular as I may be in Dar, being called into the Embassy urgently is not normally associated with positive outcomes. So it was with trepidation that I ran over to the Embassy compound where I found myself surrounded by the top people working in HIV.

They told me:

A very important VIP is coming to Tanzania. (Their redundancy, not mine.)
The Embassy is in the process of preparing a program for said very important VIP.
I am not allowed to know who the VIP is or when the VIP might be coming.
This very important VIP is indeed very important.
I am not allowed to tell my colleagues about a very important VIP coming to Tanzania or that I/we might be somehow involved. If I do, we’re out.
If I lobby for this with anyone at the Embassy, we’re out.
And finally, I am requested to provide the Embassy with a write-up by the end of the day describing a site visit the very important VIP could make to our project that promotes faithfulness in marriage as a HIV prevention strategy called Sikia Kengele (listen to the bell).
And, oh yeah, there is a 99% chance that whatever I submit will not be selected for the very important VIP visit.

At that moment I knew. George Bush was coming to Tanzania. Who else would be interested in our faithfulness initiative when we are doing such great work with sex workers and brothels?

So I did my duty and submitted a write-up – but not talking about it was nearly impossible. Everyone in the American community – Embassy or not – had heard the gossip. In fact, I may have been the last to know. Whispered conversations over grocery carts and at the vegetable stand were abound. Did I know anything? They would trade me their info for my info. And much as I love to gossip – I think I did a pretty good job keeping my mouth shut – for me.

A few days later I got another call to come into the Embassy. This time, the Embassy people were joined by HIV prevention partner agency heads like myself.

“Do you know who POTUS is?” they asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m from Washington DC.” (I didn’t want to tell them that the real reason I knew was because of the West Wing - President Of The United States)

“And do you know who FLOTUS is?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said. (First Lady Of The United States)

“Well,” they expanded, “we want you to rewrite your event for FLOTUS, not POTUS. And even though we don’t really have a natural place for your event, we want to try to link it with another event where FLOTUS will talk with 20 14-year-old Muslims graduating from a Madrassa HIV/AIDS education program.”

Right. Because there are close natural links between 14 year-old Madrassa students and a community mobilization initiative using bells as wake up calls to promote faithfulness in marriage. But true to the spirit of collaboration, I pitched this unnatural alliance from a lifecycle approach. We all knew it was bullshit. But we were trying hard.

Then I was told again:

Talk about this in public and it’s off.
Don’t tell your colleagues who the very important VIP is or it’s off.
The final decision belongs to FLOTUS’ people.
There is still a 99% chance this won’t happen.
Start to prepare.

So I went back to my office and told my top team that there is a very important VIP coming to town and we’ve been asked to prepare a Kengele event. I told them:

I can’t tell you who the person is.
I can’t tell you where the event is.
I can’t tell you what might be involved in the event.
I can’t tell you what days the event might occur (I still had no idea)
OK, let’s get started preparing…

So we began to prepare.

And in the preparation of an event that we had almost no information about, and for person whom my colleagues were totally in the dark, there was a level of exhilaration and novelty that was very exciting.

We were among the chosen few.

I was.

I was among the few people in Dar just ever-so-slightly in the know. People asked me questions and I told them I wasn’t able to answer them. It was powerful. I felt strong and connected; part of a secret society.

And I became invested – invested in making sure this thing happens. Invested in getting to meet Mrs. Bush. Invested in the 15 seconds of institutional fame that comes with having a President or his wife visit your project. Invested in having a project important enough to make the cut. And I even convinced myself that perhaps I would actually get a chance to meet the President himself.

I was totally, completely invested. Obsessed even.

And things were looking good. Slowly we had more information. I was allowed to tell my colleagues when and where the event would be. Every few days the Embassy people talked to the White House and planning continued.

By this time, about 200 of the 600 members of the Bush delegation were already in Dar. The press corps was crawling around – all of them looking to film skeletal people dying from AIDS for their reels - because that's all they can relate to when they report about AIDS. The advance team Secret Service guys were dressed in everyday clothes – not the suits and earplugs we are used to seeing. Nevertheless, it is easy to tell who they were. They have crew cuts and a certain familiar cockiness and swagger that is hard to miss.

My team and I were titillated. We were moving fast to print new t-shirts and banners for the event. We had a giant bell cast so that Mrs. Bush would have a fabulous photo-op ringing the bell of faithfulness. The Christian right would love it. At great expense I even had my mother DHL some new clothes to me since my wardrobe here is short on pantsuits a la Hillary Clinton. (Pantsuits or dresses are evidently the standard uniform for meeting Mrs. Bush, and I haven’t worn a dress in many, many years.)

Several nights in a row I woke in the middle of the night, “practicing” what I would say during my five minutes of face-to-face time, when I would have to introduce myself and the Sikia Kengele initiative to Mrs. Bush before inviting her to ring the bell of faithfulness.

“Hello Mrs. Bush, my name is…”

“Hello Mrs. Bush. Welcome to Tanzania. My name is…”

“Mrs. Bush, it is an honor to meet you. My name is…”

Over and over and over again. All night long.

Then, last weekend I was at the playground with my kids, chatting with an Embassy friend. She told me on the sly that it wasn’t looking good for us. Mrs. Bush’s people (we were allowed to use her name now), were not convinced. Mrs. Bush prefers intimate events. Her people weren’t happy with the fact that our event required a small crowd, and the link between the Madrassa graduation and ringing of the bell of faithfulness was not particularly clear to them either.

I was totally depressed. I wondered how I would be able to face my colleagues on Monday.

So I was completely surprised on Monday morning when the call came for us to participate in a run-through with the Secret Service. An adorable guy from DC via Mississippi walked through the event with my team and the Embassy people. As we went along he pointed out where he would station his snipers, his anti-assault team, and his anti-terrorism team.

Who knew a simple event required so many teams?

But it was at this moment that I knew that our event was really going to happen. I couldn’t help it. I was ecstatic! My adrenaline has been pumping ever since.

But my excitement begged the question, why?

I can’t stand President Bush. I’ve never before had any desire to meet him. I once met his predecessor, President Clinton. And back in 1991 I stood on the White House lawn as part of a “welcoming” group when the first President Bush welcomed Japan’s president to the Rose Garden. But never, ever have I wanted to be in the presence of this current president, whose policies and actions (99% of them anyway) I’ve held with disdain for the past eight years.

And before this opportunity I’ve never even given Mrs. Bush a thought. I have no opinion of her one way or other whatsoever.

So why was I so invested?

Well… the easiest answer is because I wanted to write you a fabulous blog post about the experience. That’s true. But it is also sort of a cop-out of a response.

The next answer is uglier. Anyone who knows me knows that I like to be in the center of things. I love the excitement. I like the attention we are getting from my headquarters office in DC and from other colleagues here in Tanzania. I enjoy watching my colleagues and their excitement. I like the feeling of working with colleagues towards a common agenda. I like being part of an elite group. And even, somehow, I am enjoying a sense of patriotism that is buoyed by the fact that I do believe that the President’s HIV initiative has been one of the few things for which he deserves some credit.

But also I want to look into this man’s eyes; my president’s eyes; and see what’s in there. I want to stand in his presence to see if I can see the good mixed in with all the ugly that comes to mind when I think about him under normal circumstances. After all, most people are complex. I want to believe that he is no exception. He may be ordering the bombing of Iraq by day, but is he a loving husband and supportive father by night? I want to know if I can see that part of him. I need to know. Somehow it has become important to me.
_____________________________________________

On Wednesday afternoon I got the call. Our event, scheduled to take place on Sunday, was canceled.

Mrs. Bush loves children. She wants to spend more time with the Madrassa children, leaving no time for ringing the bell of faithfulness. The Secret Service weren’t happy with her being outside, anyway. The White House press office was unsure of how photo-worthy newsreel of Mrs. Bush ringing the bell would be.

But there was a small light at the end of the tunnel. Two colleagues and I were still invited to attend the event. At the end of the meeting with the children we could have a few minutes to meet Mrs. Bush.

But then on Thursday morning the White House nixed that, too.
_____________________________________________
President and Mrs. Bush landed in Tanzania today.

I won’t be meeting them.

They won’t be ringing the bell of faithfulness.

I won’t be sweating away under the unforgiving equator sun in 90 degree, 90% humidity weather in my new pantsuit a la Hillary.

I’m no longer involved in the visit in any way, other than joining the masses who will suffer in the traffic jams that are sure to result.

Sure, I am disappointed. But the good news is I’ve snapped out of my Pollyanna-like trance.

I’m back to being my irreverent disdainful self. I remember now, I can’t stand President Bush or his policies.

I’m back to being disenfranchised and mad.

From Laura Bush's last trip to Tanznia a few years ago

So Close and Yet So Far

During the past few weeks I’ve been getting messages from concerned friends and family asking if the kids and I are OK given what is going on in Kenya.

In case you’ve somehow missed it (which, let’s admit, is easy to do in the US given our news networks’ proclivities against international stories that don’t involve the US going to war on false grounds)… the most recent elections in Kenya didn’t go so well. The incumbent won – but likely by nefarious means. And unlike the fraudulent elections in the US in 2000, the runner-up has not been inclined to drop his claims on the office for the sake of the nation. In Kenya, long standing ethnic and tribal issues (which were exacerbated by British colonial rule) have complicated the situation. There has been violence. Up to 1000 people have died in either clashes with the police or via small pockets of “ethnic cleansing” that bring chillingly scary flashbacks to Rwanda in 1994.

This is scary shit. And it is happening just on the other side of the border from Tanzania.

But just so you are all at ease… The Kenyan border is a good 10 hour drive north – and the problems are not happening all over Kenya – but in limited pockets. Since I’m a big fan of geography, I can make for you the analogy that it is like sitting in NY watching riots Ottawa, Canada. It is pretty far away and in another country to boot.

Still… this is scary shit. And it is happening just on the other side of the border from Tanzania.
_____________________________________________________

It has always bothered me when well-meaning folks, upon hearing that I’m living in Africa, say things like, “oh… that must be dangerous”, or “sounds unsafe”, or even worse, “hmm.. the dark continent, scary”. (Yes… more than one person has actually said that.)

Poor Africa.

Imagine the idea of a whole continent judged by the misfortune of sharing a land mass with a few rough places – like if we judged all of the United States by the violence and poverty of inner city New Orleans and Detroit. What about the beautiful savannahs? What about the jungles full of amazing creatures? What about all the wonderful people I’ve met in each of the sub-Saharan countries I’ve visited? (Eight so far!)

Africa needs an image consultant.

But Africa also needs some of our compassion and understanding. As a continent, it’s gotten a bum deal – what with all the colonial plunder of natural resources and mass murder perpetrated by the Belgians, British, French, Portuguese, Spaniards and others; and not to mention the slave trade to the Americas and to the Arabian peninsula, yada, yada, yada….
And then there is the shitty thing about how the beautiful forests and animals are also the source of deadly diseases like ebola, malaria, and maybe even HIV.

Talk about being screwed from both ends.
______________________________________________________

I started to write this post in response to good friend who sent an e-mail asking me to blog about what is happening in Kenya and my snotty – but intended to be humorous - response to her was… get a map.

Tanzania is not in Kenya. Tanzania is not Kenya.

I prepared my high horse (or is it my soap box?), ready to give you all (my readers) an education about how Tanzania was saved from much of the post colonial division that happened in other countries by a visionary first president, Julius Nyrere (look him up if you are a history or politics fan – he was a really interesting person and a national and regional hero) who decided to turn Tanzania towards a socialist, rather than Western, path and then worked to do away with tribalism by uniting Tanzanians under one language (Swahili) and one nation (Tanzania). As a result – the question of ethnicity or tribe is not part of the daily discourse here as it is in Kenya where Kikuyu help Kikuyu get ahead, and if you are Luo you definitely voted for the opposition. And today, even though the path is definitely back towards capitalism, the trick about uniting Tanzanians continues to stick. It makes Tanzania a very unique place.

But there is also a list a mile long of things that are just the same here as they are in Kenya.

Like crippling poverty

Like disenfranchised youth

Like the fact that death and sickness are as much a part of day-to-day life for most people here as Starbucks is to people who live in Seattle.

I don’t mean to be crass… but it’s true. Whenever I forget, there is always something that reminds me. Like the day last month when the kids and I saw three dead bodies in less than 24 hours.

Two of them were around the corner from my house. Two young men – security guards for the same security service I use - had been hit by an even younger man who was driving his new car drunk at 10 in the morning on Boxing Day. When the kids and I drove by the bodies were still in the street although they had been hit more than an hour previously. People were standing around them disinterestedly. The police were there just hanging out. There had been no attempt to get the guys to the hospital, no attempt to clear the scene or cover the bodies. They were just there in the road for the rest of us to drive around.
We saw the third guy the next morning on the highway as we drove west towards our vacation destination. Again it was a guy lying dead in the road. This time it was along a stretch of highway that was surrounded by savannah on both sides. There were two police officers standing over him – filling in a form, it seemed. No one else was around. It was unclear how he got there – although I imagine he was hit by a bus or fell off a truck. It was unceremonious. That’s how death often is around here.

I actually have a million stories I could tell you – and it would be cathartic to spill them out – like how my friend’s security guard had his second baby in the past two years die from malaria over the weekend, or how another friend’s nanny died of AIDS in her backyard a few months ago. But I’m going to hold back. You get the idea – I think.

But why am I sharing all this with you?

It is because we need this lens in order to understand what is happening in Kenya. You need to know that death is always close here. That in many communities people are desperate for food or for power or to survive the week. And many – especially the youth - have no grander plans to look forward to. When you hear about people hacking each other to death with machetes in Kenya it is not enough to assume that the reasons why or the solutions are simple politics.

Send in Kofi Annan and he can fix the situation, right?

Don’t turn away from what is happening. Don’t turn off the news. Africa needs us to pay attention and to care.
_____________________________________________

One month ago Kenya was one of the most prosperous and stable places on the continent. The ethnic politics made it different from Tanzania, but it was nevertheless growing and peaceful - just like here.

Tanzania is not like Kenya, right?

Or is the other side of the same coin?

Tick Tock - Time to Close Up Shop

With less than a month to go before the big 4-0 I’ve been waiting with anticipation for some sort of existential (or perhaps even more real) crisis to wash over me. After all, the milestone of turning 40 does have some pretty heavy baggage that comes with it. In 26 days I’ll be officially over the hill, past my prime, closer to being an old hag than I am to my fabulous teenage years roaming the halls of Mamaroneck High School.

And let’s face it, the only thing that is stopping me from being one of those sad women in an urban apartment, all alone and with too many cats (I already had two in my 20s, which usually doesn’t bode well for the future), is that five years ago I made the controversial, difficult, and (looking back) perhaps even bold decision to go it alone and procreate.

And now I have Jaden and Rowan, turning 4 in 17 days. Some might still call me a woman “alone” (since I have no partner), but instead of heading towards hagdom, I’m enjoying the life of an international soccer mom (yes it is possible to be a soccer mom even in Tanzania.) chaperoning the kids to play-dates and swim lessons, and going on a weekly outing to the noisy and annoying “kids” restaurant with a play area, face painting, and really mediocre food, just because they love it so much.

During the past year I’ve been having that internal (infernal?) conversation that many women who’ve gone before me have had. Am I going to stop at two? Although I know that there are magical hormonal changes going on inside of me, I am fool enough to believe that the reproductive bits and pieces are still in working order and at 39 years and 339 days I likely have some small bit of fertility left, a few eggs in good condition, a uterus that still does it’s monthly duty, enough estrogen and progesterone to make the magic happen perhaps just one more time…

Luckily, I still have several vials of Jaden and Rowan’s donor sitting in cold storage back in Washington, DC. And I do think that they are just the neatest kids – so why wouldn’t I want some more just like them? Hell, I live overseas where there is an infinite supply of affordable human help to do just about anything you can possibly imagine. If I wanted I could have day nurses, night nurses, wet nurses, midwives, housekeepers, etc. I could have another kid under the best of circumstances you could ever find a single gal in. It would be so easy compared to the last time. And I would have a cuddly widdle baby to love, and he/she would love me, and we would live happily ever after…

Whoosh. This is the point in the movie where the girl wakes up in her own bed, startled. Clearly the last few minutes of magical fantasy have been a dream.

Back in the real world college costs $40,000/year per kid (unless I manage to finagle a job with the UN, which pays for college), preschool even runs $4,000/year per kid in Tanzania, and all of a sudden I’m remembering how much I struggled the first two years with Jaden and Rowan. Now that I think about it, I was pretty miserable during my pregnancy, too. And OMG, what if I got pregnant with twins again? Four year olds are awesome. Four kids, not so much. Besides, eventually I’ll move back to the US where being a single mother by choice of three or more kids would really make me freaky.

Recently a friend told me that 50 is the new 40. I suppose that may be true for guys, but for us gals we have this ticking biological clock which gets louder and louder until about 42 when the chances of being able to have a biological child of our own pretty much ends abruptly. (Don’t be fooled into complacency by all those women having children older than 43, 95% of them are using donor eggs.) I look around me at my friends who want to, but haven’t taken the reproductive plunge yet, and I feel their pain. I want to stand on my soapbox and tell them that they, too, can go it alone. They don’t have to wait for a partner to produce. Better yet, they can join me overseas and find heaven on earth for the single mom.

Five years ago I knew that and that and made the decision to not take a chance in the fertility sweepstakes and go it alone. Lots of people thought I was nuts. When I finally got pregnant I thought I was nuts, too. But I’ve decided that my 40th birthday is my payout for all the stress and second guessing. I’m actually looking forward to it. I plan to be 40 and fabulous and I’m currently planning a big blow out party in a fun new restaurant featuring Jamaican food (lobster patties, my favorite), 80s music, and the many wonderful friends I’ve met since I moved to Tanzania, and some who even came here with me. Jaden and Rowan will help me celebrate my birthday, but the party is for adults only because nurturing the un-mom part of Hally remains an important part of maintaining my identity – of being 40 and fabulous both with kids and without.

This morning I woke up with a whoosh and a start and sat up straight in bed. I was literally dreaming about clocks, and the ticking was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think anymore. My subconscious was reminding me that it is time to make a decision – take the plunge or empty the pool.

So with 40 looming, and parenthood being a lovely extension of the real Hally but not the entirety of Hally, I am taking the executive decision to shut off my biological clock. I’m removing the batteries. The ticking has stopped.

There will be no third kid. Time’s up.

The heros of my 40th birthday.

A Member of the Club, Part II. The Insurgency.

Jaden enjoying a Friday evening at the Yacht Club

Well it is now official. On December 5th, in front of friends, my sponsor, and God, I became an official member of the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club.

Since I wrote you last about my post-Sea Cliff fire depression, the kids and I have been enjoying the benefits of temporary membership – meaning that we could enjoy the place without the guilt and scorn of certain friends (who shall remain nameless, but you know who you are) since we weren’t yet “official members”. We’ve been using the beach, playing in the playground, and enjoying the best pizza in Dar washed down with a beer on water’s edge as the sun sets across the bay.

Almost every Friday in the early evening we’ve been gathering with friends, the other “outsiders” who don’t quite fit the traditional Yacht Club membership profile. We are single parents, crunchy-granola types, people of color, Jewish, lesbians, and oftentimes not nearly as pretty as the other members on the bar patio. Most of us don’t sail. We are there for the beach and now for the company of each other. We have a lot of fun, drinking and eating the Friday-night barbeque, with our kids swarming all around us. Each of us fights the nagging guilt of being members of the Club. But when you look out over the sea, and the breeze actually causes tingly goose pimples at a time when Dar es Salaam is so hot you feel like a lit wax candle, all the guilt is assuaged and we manage to just enjoy.

Temporary membership was great and mostly guilt-free, but then the inevitable letter inviting me to the official membership induction ceremony arrived. I was directed to the bank where I was to deposit $1000 in cash in the Yacht Club’s account for the privilege of membership. I was ordered to get a sponsor and a spare to state on the membership form that should I default on my debts to the club that they would be financially responsible. Then I was forced to spend one of my precious Friday evenings walking around the bar patio trying to locate three committee members to sign on the form that they had “met” me. (Well… if “meeting” me involves someone not even asking my name but drunkenly grabbing the form and signing it in the wrong place… well, ok.)

So, on the 5th I showed up at the Yacht Club, as ordered, with my main sponsor in tow. To my happy surprise a lot of my friends were joining at the same time. After about an hour in the bar we were directed to a space where the meeting “officially” began. One-by-one the committee members stood and told us about all the ways in which we could get fined. The boat master told us that if we need to be rescued he will fine us; the beach master told us that if we drive down to the beach he will fine us; and the dive master told us that if we do unauthorized dives and he finds out about it he will fine us. It was like Catholic reform school without the habits. Warm and fuzzy.

When it came time to give out the official membership cards I expected there to be some sort of formal ceremony. Why else would they insist that you bring your sponsor and go through so much pomp and circumstance?

I expected something like this:

Quatermaster: Please rise, Hally Mahler.

Hally: (rises)

Quartermaster: Who brings this woman forth for membership into our revered institution, the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club?

Sponsor: (stands) I do.

Quartermaster: And do you attest, under oath, that Ms. Mahler is Yacht Club-worthy? Will she uphold the laws and obligations of Yacht Club membership?

Sponsor: I believe she will, sir.

Quatermaster: (turning towards Hally) Ms. Mahler, do you accept all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of membership to the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club? Will you do your part in maintaining the premises and keeping out the riff raff?

Hally: I will sir. Sort of. Sir, before I become a member, I’d just like to put in a plug for more diversity at the Club. You see, sir, I think the club would have a much better image in this day and age if we actively recruited a variety of…

Quatermaster: (outraged) Silence! (pause) Do you accept all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of membership to the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club?

Hally: (meekly) Yes…

Quatermaster: Ms Mahler, you are one of us now. Congratulations.

Hally (sounding resigned) Yes sir. Thank you sir.

In reality, they called my name, I went up the head table, and they gave me my new card, which is now “permanent member” white, instead of “temporary member” green. And I have no idea why I was required to bring my sponsor. Perhaps it was so the bar could make a little bit of extra money that night?

Now that Jaden, Rowan and I are officially members I’ve been taking a bit more flak, but I’ve also finally read the rules. No one can be denied membership with a proper sponsor, and people born in Tanzania can become members at half price. Every time I meet someone who would normally not fit into the Yacht Club mold I give them a hard sell to try to convince them to join. The more of us misfits that join, the more enjoyable the club will be.

This is my mission (I choose to accept it). It will be a peaceful revolution. Change from within. I’ve decided that what the Yacht Club needs for me to feel more comfortable is more people like me, more diveristy, and I will do my part in recruiting it. I could stand outside, refuse to join, be deprived of the beauty and amenities that it offers, and complain loudly. But instead I’m calling up all the Tanzanian-born, black, Jewish, ex-Peace Corps, outsider, lesbians I know and giving them the sales pitch. Come join the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club. You will be welcomed here.

(Editors Note: In defense of the Yacht Club, I just want to say that although the place is pretty homogenous in terms of its membership, I’ve never actually encountered any outright elitism or racism among the staff, officers or members. It is rather the reputation of the place that spurs me on to write these posts. I assume that you will take this post with the humor with which it was conceived.)

South Africa Sweet and Sour

Over Thanksgiving weekend I traveled to South Africa to participate in the fabulous wedding celebration of my friends, Damon and Kent.

In the US gay weddings are becoming rather commonplace, even if they are not recognized in but a small handful of states. But not too many people in the US combine safari, petting lions, and a legal wedding in an apartheid-era women’s prison to such wonderful effect.

Kent and Damon are Americans who have been living in South Africa for about four years. Kent is white, Damon is African-American. Kent is from the North/Midwest, Damon is from Philadelphia. They have been married in practice for more than 12 years, but since they live in South Africa where since last year gay weddings became officially and constitutionally recognized, they decided to go for it and have a big extravaganza weekend.

I was just one of 30+ people who traveled from “overseas” to bear witness to the occasion. And I think that the novelty of a legal wedding is part of what drew so many people from the US to the event (in addition to the large and active Kent and Damon fan club). It was pretty amazing to watch two beloved gay friends legally “tie the knot” in a venue where a little more than 10 years ago the women freedom fighters of South Africa were held in chains, their freedom repressed.

A big theme of the weekend was the contradictions of “new South Africa”. On one hand, I spent most of my downtime roaming fabulous shopping malls and feeling like I was back in an alternative version of the US where everything costs (just slightly) less and shopkeepers have the most lovely accents. I stayed with my friend, Michelle, who lives in the carriage house of a most amazing property in the wealthiest part of town – complete with Italian renaissance-style terraced garden. We ate Thai food and sushi, visited a park where you can pet the baby lions, and took a mini-safari about an hour north of town. It was lovely.

The other side, of course, is the crime that Johannesburg has become so famous for – shoot first, ask questions later – rape – anger. Of course, this is the evitable result of decades of oppression and economic injustice. But from the outside it seems that it could be the downfall of a country that has so much going for it.

And then there is Jacob Zuma. Even two months ago he was all the talk of the town, and in the last week he was elected to lead the ANC which makes him the likely next president. I don’t pretend to know much about South African politics. But I can tell you that it is never ideal to have a man who has been accused (multiple times) of corruption take the helm of your country. But even worse than that, this is a man who during his trial for rape (accused of raping the underage daughter of a friend) stated that he didn’t use a condom during the act (which he said was consensual) because he wasn’t worried about HIV since he took a shower right after.

At the time he was a leader of the national HIV/AIDS program.

But the promises of Nelson Mandela and the potential of the new South Africa were all that was on the guests’ minds as we gathered in the rotunda of the old prison in the late afternoon that Saturday. Beams of light came through the high windows illuminating the 160 guests – the most diverse group of people I’ve ever seen in one place – half white, half black; half male, half female; half gay, half straight; half American, half not. Kent and Damon planned to walk down the aisle to a Frank Sinatra-type tune, but as soon as the South Africans spotted them down the path outside the hall they broke spontaneously into the most beautiful song. I don’t know which African language they were singing in, and I don’t know what the words meant, but it was the most harmonious, beautiful, and celebratory song I’ve ever heard. It made me cry. (And I don’t usually cry at these things.) It was incredible.

During the ceremony Kent and Damon accepted marriage advice from their “elders”, and prayers to their ancestors for a happy life together were said in the 10 languages of various participants. At the end of the ceremony they jumped over a broom, an African-America tradition; and then had guests pour water over their hands, a Thai wedding tradition (Kent was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Thailand). Straying from the confines of a traditional marriage ceremony, it was a lovely tribute to their life together so far, the life ahead of them, and the things and people most important to them.

Later as I sat at my table in the courtyard of the former women’s prison I watched a full moon rise above the walls of the building that once caused so many patriots much pain. Under that bright moon, Kent and Damon danced as if gay marriage was a right that everyone around the world could enjoy, diversity reigned, and the new South Africa shone.





The grooms