Bombs Away

There are so many wonderful events and experiences that I still have not written about that it's irking that I must write something about bombs.  However, yesterday afternoon, there were two bomb blasts at popular tourist sites in Stone Town, which is the cultural heart of Zanzibar City.  John and I took a daladala into town around 3:30 p.m. but were prevented from walking down the street we wanted to by yellow crime scene tape stretched across its entrance.  We thought perhaps there had been a serious car-pedestrian accident or maybe even an attempted robbery.  No one told us what had really happened.  So, we took a detour and thought nothing more of it until we returned to the house and received text messages from Zanzibarian friends asking if we were okay.

I quickly checked for local news and found that around 2:30, a bomb had gone off at the entrance of the Anglican cathedral and another at Mercury's, a famous bar for tourists who remember Freddy Mercury.  Neither bomb was very large and no one seems to have been injured--except perhaps one person at Mercury's, and that hasn't been verified. Whoever is behind these bombings doesn't seem sophisticated enough in technique to be part of any larger group of dissidents, and the government and local police will handle this with great zeal.  Tourism is the economic life blood of Zanzibar, and only a very few zealots would do anything to harm that source of jobs and income.

The Anglican cathedral, which is built on the site of the old slave market.

The circle of friendship we form after services for the benediction

Freddy Mercury's house

As I have noted in other posts, the Tanzanians as a whole are respectful, and very open and honest.  Even though they may be offended by the careless and often sluttish way many western tourists dress, they tolerate the behavior and remain very polite. There is no other reminder of how sexualized our western female dress code has become as graphic as seeing white tourists in short shorts and tank tops next to the elegantly robed Muslim women.  We may think that wearing a bouiboui is repressive--and in this heat I think it must be--but the women here dress with a style and elegance that puts us to shame. I wish that it weren't rude to take photos of the people I see on the streets, as I would love to have a collection of the parade of beauty I see each day.

Two female members of SUZA's faculty

Young women at Forodhani Park

At the construction site of the monument to the revolution

Our female students ready to enter a mosque

But, back to the bombings and a bit of history.  If you are as old as I am, you may remember a country called Tanganyika.  This is usually referred to as "the mainland" now since Zanzibar joined the United Republic of Tanzania after a bloody revolution in 1964.  However, in this union, Zanzibar still remains largely autonomous with its own parliament, president, and laws.  And, unlike the mainland, Zanzibar is about 99% Muslim with its own unique culture.  However, there are those who resent that Christians from the mainland have moved onto Zanzibar and who would like to secede from the union (This reminds me of some of the blustery conservatives in Texas), and, even though only a minority supports such an idea, this issue is currently being debated in the Zanzibar parliament.  So, most likely the bombings were a political statement more than an anti-westerner one: the Cathedral is a symbol of Christian intrusion, and the owner of Mercury's has been very outspoken against the idea of secession.  Realistically, the splinter group arguing for secession is fighting a losing battle, as this island is economically tied to the mainland in many ways that cannot practically be broken.  For example, all the electrical power comes from the mainland via underwater cable, and many families rely on mainland employment to support their families on the island. This is why Hamad is only at home on the weekends.

So, I am not in the least bit fearful being out and about as usual.  This morning, the people on the daladalas were as polite and helpful as always. The taxi driver I had for a jaunt to get my hair cut was very talkative and made a point of telling me that everyone loves wagaini (outsiders).  And, Fadhila is just plain pissed that anyone would do such a stupid thing.  And, you know when I put it all into a larger perspective, I have to recognize that I have a much greater chance of being shot and killed by the Spokane police than I do of being injured or killed by a bomber here on Zanzibar. This is not a crazy, violence prone society with a high number of gun owners and stand-your-ground laws.

What to Do with Dadas

I had decided that after a busy weekend, I wanted to be lazy this morning and sleep in until 8:30 or 9:00.  However, as soon as John left, sometime just after 7:00, Habiba, the youngest dada, stood outside our window and called, "Janet, Janet. Janet," over and over.  Why?  I didn't respond and eventually she stopped calling.  But, this is just one example of many, many dada behaviors which make me feel uncomfortable and cause me to wonder if I will ever get the African house help relationship and expectations figured out correctly.

This is an issue I have struggled with since my very first days in the Congo.  There seemed to be absolutely no reason for John and I to employ house help.  We were young and perfectly able to do our own cleaning, laundry, marketing, and cooking.  Other older, more experienced expatriates chided us because according to them, we looked selfish to the Congolese who needed employment and knew that we could afford to give someone a job.  So, we gave in and hired Jacques, a young man from an orohanage, who needed an entry level job so he could eventually advance to something better.  At age 22, I didn't yet know how to cook, and I was a failure as a domestic arts trainer and spent a good deal of time either avoiding Jacques because I didn't know what to have him do or cleaning up after him because he cooked like hell and burned a lot of food. Buying rice in the market and doing the laundry were perhaps his two best skills, but I knew when we left Kinshasa that poor Jacques had not gotten the training he would have from someone more comfortable with a servant.

It was similar in Liberia, though I knew enough to hire help immediately, and this time we took on 18-year-old twins, Joseph and Josephine, who needed to earn money for school fees.  They came each afternoon, and usually I had Josephine do laundry and marketing for us.  She loved it when I gave her money for a taxi (10 cents) and the market.  She also cooked jollof rice for us.  John kept Joseph busy by having him run errands and oversee such things as repairing bike inner tubes.  I did better with the twins than I had with Jacques, but still I was uncomfortable sitting and reading while Josephine did laundry or cooked, and I'd lie awake at night trying to think of things I could possibly have her do.

Bukasa, our houseman the second time we were in the Congo, knew absolutely nothing about "white" housekeeping and would have driven me to drink if there had been any liquor other than homemade palm wine within 100 miles.  Bukasa raised sandstorms when he swept the house, so I had to stay outside during the action and wait until the dust settled before re-entering the house.  But, he was incredibly proud of his position and did the laundry near the village path so he could chat with anyone who passed by.  Wisely, I never introduced him to cooking, though he did start charcoal fires for me when I used the babula, and he knew exactly how to skin the haunch of wild boar I bought from the local hunters.  He was always good humored and eager to help, and I still miss him.

Here at Fahdilas, there are three dadas who do absolutely all the cleaning, laundry and cooking since Fahdila is now completely consumed with the opening of her new restaurant, "The Executive Chef."
Compared with our last visit here in 2012, the quality and variety of food we are served have greatly declined, and while Fahdila is away, the dadas do pretty much what they want to--and they definitely want to do less work than they should.  Instead, they want to have me be their entertainment.  I cannot sit in the breezier outer rooms or they will come and lean over my shoulder to see what is happening on my computer or even my Kindle.  When my computer is on, they beg me to show them pictures.  Every time they enter a room where I am, they greet me and try to give me Swahili lessons.  And, when like this morning, I stay in our room, they knock at the door and call me to sit on the veranda or have some juice or tell me that the water is now cold or bring me a mandazi or ask about John, whom they know is at school every morning.  While I don't want to be rude, I also wish I knew how to set a stricter boundary on how they treat me.  They observe John and I playing with the children and thus realize that we are very different than the usual Zanzibarian adult, but apparently they do not sense that our relationship with the children does not transfer exactly to them.

Two dadas with Shehe

 Growing up as a Mennonite, I was taught that we are all equal in God's sight and that no one is above doing hard work and service to others.  Mennonites had hired girls and hired men who assisted with large families and farms, and though they took directions from the home owners or farmers, they were not considered as lower in class or status.  In fact, they often became college professors, nurses, teachers etc. as anyone else would.  "Help" was exactly that: help, not servitude.  Also, any Mennonite hired help had been raised with a strict work ethic and sense of service to others, so very rarely would they need to be corrected or chided about their work.  None of this is true for the dadas here.  They are very poor, untrained village girls, who are definitely low status and expected to work 7 days a week, from early morning to late at night. Fahdila is considered to be a good employer, but her method of supervising is yelling and stomping about, behavior I cannot duplicate.  When Fahdila is in the house, the dadas stay busy or else and pretty much leave me alone.  However, during the long hours when Fahdila is at her restaurant, the dadas cut loose and pester me constantly.  Should I, too, yell?  Learn Swahili for "Go away"?  Try not to be so American and smile less?  Pretend I've gone deaf?  WWYD?

Daladala Etiquette

It always surprises me when something I have observed hundreds of times finally impresses me with what it actually is.  I have ridden on matatus in Kenya and the daladalas (same thing, different names) here in Zanzibar City many, many times and always appreciated the politeness I experienced from both the touts and my fellow passengers.  I have always hoped the kindness shown to me as I hoist myself up into the minivan is in deference to my age, not my white face.  But, one never knows for sure.  Except, here on Zanzibar Island, I honestly believe it is much more the former than the latter.

Daladalas lined up to go.

We take daladala 507 Samaki (Fish) going into or returning from the city center, so the touts always recognize us as we wait by the side of our street for a ride.  Almost always we are the only wazungu on the dala, which I enjoy, as I like the natural, loose interaction of the other passengers.  Then, I began to notice the general respect and care people showed one another.  The touts, whose job it is to solicit as many riders as possible and thus up the revenue for their drivers, always show patience with the slow boarding and alighting of the older passengers, often helping them by carrying their larger bags on or off the dala.  Likewise, when a mother with a small child boards, the tout will usually lift the child in to a passenger to hold until the mother gets seated and can hold the child herself.  I have never seen a mother, child, or passenger protest--it's just expected.  And, though the legal passenger limit for a dala is 18, it's not unusual for 22 or 25 to be crammed in, especially when schools let out and students, who ride at a discount, crowd in.  Yet, I have never heard anyone complain about the crush. I myself have been so tightly squished that I expected to exit at least a foot taller and a foot thinner around my middle.  Still, everyone remains calm and pleasant, with occasional jokes about the situation.  It's civility at its best in the push of daily life.

Which leads me to comment on how erroneously so many Americans picture life in a Muslim culture.  There is not only a huge ignorance of Islam itself, but an equally large failure to understand that Islam and Muslim life is as varied as Christianity.  I, as a Christian, certainly resent when I am summarily categorized with those I view as right-wing whackos, whom I believe distort the Gospel for their own self interests.  And, so it must be for Zanzibarians, who are not all uniform either, but seem very uniformly honest, respectful, and open in their interactions with each other and with outsiders such as I.  This is the only place I have been in Africa--and I have been in 12 African countries so far--where I feel perfectly safe at all times in all places and never even hesitate to hand my bag to a tout or fellow passenger as I board or exit a dala.  It is wonderfully refreshing when I pause and think about the meaning of such civility, a civility I do not see elsewhere, not even in my own country anymore.

A Valentine's Day to Remember

When I was a child growing up in Oregon, the saying "When it rains, it pours" never made much sense to me.  I didn't even own an umbrella until I left for college, and my mother, who had grown up in Ohio, insisted I take one with me.  Once I arrived in the Midwest, I learned all about thunderstorms and torrential downpours that rendered windshield wipers useless. Still, the rains we have been having off and on for over a week now amaze me with their ferocity.  The black clouds roll in from the ocean, and water pours down like thousands of miniature waterfalls.  Everything and everyone is instantly soaked, and the streets run with muddy streams full of debris.

For Valentine's Day, John planned to take me downtown to an ultra-nice restaurant as a treat.  First though, I wanted to visit the one air-conditioned "supermarket" I know about because I wanted to find a comb for wazungu hair.  I had looked at all the street vendors who sold hair products and accessories and had asked at many of the Asian shops as well with no success at all.  But, I thought there was a slight chance that Shamshu's would have one--after all they offer Betty Crocker cake mixes for sale.  So, we walked from the daladala stop to the big Darajani market and behind the fish market, past piles of octopus for sale, and finally reached the store. It, however, was closed for 4:00 prayers, so we waited until the men poured back out of the mosque and the store reopened.  I was relieved that there was an acceptable comb for my ultra-straight hair, even though it was not at all fine-toothed.  Who would have thought that in a city of as many as 400,000 one would have such a hard time finding a western type comb?

A nice pile of octopi and some fish on the side

As we returned from the little alleys to the main street, we saw a massive black curtain of clouds coming swiftly in from the coast, so we walked as quickly as we could toward the nearest taxi area.  Just as we got to the first taxi, it began to pour, so we jumped inside and John asked the driver to take us to Amore Mio, a trendy place right on the beach where they serve all sorts of ice cream concoctions. It was only after we were on our way that I saw that the cab was totally beat up and barely holding together.  The rain was pouring in both side windows, and, worse yet, in through the back window and down my back.  Soon, I was completely soaked and sitting in my own private pond.  John was just hoping that the cab would hold together until we got to our destination.

When we arrived at Amore Mio, I jumped out and got to the covered veranda as quickly as I could.  Then, I saw that no one was there and water was standing on all of the tables and benches.  After a minute or so, a visibly stunned waitress appeared to ask what we wanted, and when John said we wanted menus, she disappeared and returned with two men who literally squeegeed off a table,  two small benches, and a square of floor for us. I was not feeling the least bit romantic or thrilled about being wet, but I had to admit, the situation was unexpected and unique, two things I love in any surprise or gift.  So, I settled down and ordered a coffee shake, while John got a dish of chocolate ice cream.  By the time we had finished with our Valentine's special, the rain had stopped, and we were able to walk to another taxi area to get a ride home--in a nice, dry car this time.

The children were wild with delight to see us because I had hinted that Valentine's Day was very special.  I gave each of the girls a big Valentine's card and a Little Golden Book, and Shehe another Hot Wheel's car (That's one toy he cannot instantly destroy). Then, I surprised the three dadas by giving each of them a semi-gaudy enameled and glass-jeweled brooch I had also bought at the store where I found my comb.  They, too, were delighted, but I realized by the order in which they chose their brooches--oldest going first--that I should have gone all out blazing gaudy in my choices.  Apparently, one can never have too much gold or glitter on Zanzibar.

As we peeled off our clothes for another cold shower at bedtime, I thought about the fact that not once since we arrived on this island have I felt truly dry.  Our clothes are so damp with sweat that by day's end it's a struggle to get them off.  When the dadas bring back our washed clothes, things are still quite damp, and I have to hang shirts, underwear, and socks on hangers so the fan can help dry them better.  When I take clothes out of my drawer in the morning, everything feels moist and clammy.  There is no true dry here, so getting drenched on Valentine's Day was just a more intense Zanzibar experience than usual.

Fahdila's Fabulous Feast

Fahdila is as John has said "a force of nature," so when she gets an idea the rest of us just stand aside and watch the action.  This time for John's birthday, she decided to prepare a huge dinner in the manner that one here would eat for Eid at the end of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting.  She invited all of our students to come for the evening, which meant that the whole day Thursday was a huge bustle of food preparation and cooking.  Fahdila had not only herself and the three regular dadas hard at work but also the "chef" who will be cooking at her new cafe near the airport.

My major task was to watch all the action and count the number of chipatis, croquettes, etc. that were made.  Almost everything was prepared and cooked in the dadas' kitchen, as Fahdila did not want to heat up her own house.  Fahdila had said she wanted to have 20 different things to serve, but John counted the final total as 25.  Almost every dish was incredibly labor intensive, for example, mashed potatoes made with a large stick/pestle, and garlic crushed in a big wooden mortar.  The croquettes (I don't know how to spell the Swahili word) went through so many steps of preparation that I decided that was something I probably would never make myself.  And, the humble chipatis are not at all a simple to make as one would think.  The real "secret" to all the main dishes lies in the spices, some which I recognized and some which I did not, and all the amounts were added without any exact measurement, of course.

In the dadas' kitchen

Mashing potatoes for the croquettes

Forming the croquettes

Rolling the croquettes in fine bread crumbs.

Rolling out the chipati

Frying chipati

Grating coconut

Fahdila cutting up manioc

The ubiquitous fish

So, from early morning until about 5:30, all hands were working in the kitchen, and by the time the students arrived at 7:00, this is what awaited them.

Some of the food

John had gone into town to meet the students and get them onto daladalas that would come past Fahdila's house.  This way, the transportation cost per person was less than 20 cents.  By the time the students arrived, mats had been laid in the compound for them to sit on and most of the food was laid out.  To begin the meal, Fahdila handed out dates, since according to tradition, the Prophet broke his fast by eating three dates.  Then, everyone was invited to serve themselves and eat.

The students enjoying the feast

The little girls all dressed up for the occasion and Megan applauding the food.

Even the dadas dressed up and joined in.

Since this affair was to be part of John's birthday celebration, the dadas had pushed their culinary limits and baked a cake for him.  The little children presented it with one special candle on top: a "0" for his unknown age, I guess.

Birthday boy

It was a wonderful evening for everyone, though I still can't understand why the students preferred to take photos of themselves with Amin's monkey and puppy instead of the food, people and setting. It's as if they insulate themselves from anything unfamiliar in order to keep the universe safely focused individual reality.  One can only hope that bit by bit something cracks through their self-imposed "Me, Me, Me" bubble.  If 2012 provides a forecast on expanded cultural awareness, it may only be as the students return to the States that they will begin to assess their experiences here more wisely.

Day is done

John's Birthday

Today, February 12, is John's birthday, the 8th or 9th he has celebrated in Africa.  Or, as he calculated, he has been in Africa for approximately 12% of his birthdays--and a much higher percent if one counts only his birthdays after 21. However, there isn't going to be much official celebration today, but tomorrow Fahdila plans to have a big Ramadan-like eating event in his honor.  All the students are invited, and they seem very excited about coming.  It will be fun to see how they interact with the little children.  I imagine that Amin and Marthad, the teenagers, will be too shy to mingle much.

During the night, it poured rain and the electricity went off.  Fortunately, with the rain, we have cooler temperatures, or we would have really been miserable without a fan for sleeping.  The students were scheduled to go on a field trip to a spice farm and some slave caves, but I decided to stay home just in case my stomach kept acting up.  Later, John called and said that because of the rain, the morning plans had been changed, and the students had actually visited two historical sites linked to former sultans.  The one place had big baths and other facilities for the sultan's 99 concubines, something which seemed to interest the students a great deal.

In one of the concubines' pools at the Maruhubi Palace

The rain let up a bit, so I took a daladala downtown to meet John, and then we connected with Megan and her husband, Joshua, and her sister, Melissa, for lunch at the hotel where they are now staying.  Josh and Melissa got here Sunday evening and will be around until next week, when they'll go on a short safari on the mainland.  Then, Melissa will fly back to the States, but Joshua will return to Zanzibar and travel to Arusha with us for a brief visit there as well.  They surprised John by ordering him a brownie with a dip of ice cream, and the waitress led us in "Happy Birthday."

John's birthday lunch.

The electricity was still off when we got back to the house.  Fahdila was here--on her way out again though--and said there had been power from 12:00 until 2:00, so we were hopeful that the lights, and most of all the fans would come on again soon.  At 5:00, they did!  I am never as excited about electricity as I am in Zanzibar.  Without it here, we melt; the house is very dark; and the water is quickly depleted.  In a house built to stay as cool as possible, there are no big, sunny windows, so if the power is off, I have to use a flashlight to find things in our room or the bathroom.  Also, our water supply is pumped up to large tank, and without power, the pump can't work, and we soon have no water.   In 2012, we lived for three days in semi-darkness, taking bucket baths and having our meals cooked over charcoal.  I didn't mind any of that, but I did mind the fanless night.

I don't know when Fahdila finally came home for the night.  We played with the children both before and after our pitiful supper of bread and fish soup.  Then, the dadas put the little ones to bed.  Since tomorrow night is the big special dinner, I imagine Fahdila will be here most of the day for the first time since Sunday.

John with children and dadas.

Sunday and Since

What a difference rain makes.  Ever since it began raining during the nights, the daytime temperatures have been much more bearable.  So, even though I feel as sticky as before, it is now a cooler stickiness and occasionally a breeze gives me the cooling effect of a swamp refrigerator.  I am amazed at how much more clearly I can think and how much easier it is for me to just move about.  Please, God, keep us in this weather pattern until we leave Zanzibar!

Sunday began pleasantly with cooler weather and everyone meeting at the Anglican cathedral for the 8:00 a.m. English service in the chapel.  As in 2012, the gathering was an exotic mix of worshipers from all over the world, from the Congo to Sweden and we 15 Americans.  I suspect the high church liturgy and Eucharist were very new forms of worship for many of our students, but they did well and after the service some said how much they liked the greater focus on worshiping God rather than  focusing so much on themselves and what God does for them.  I thought that was a very insightful critique of most of evangelical worship services.  After the service, everyone filed out and as they did formed a circle with each person shaking hands to the end of the line and then taking his/her place.  Then, when everyone was in place, the final benediction was pronounced.  It was a wonderful way to make sure every person greeted everyone in the gathering and was acknowledged as being a part of the whole group.

Best of all, we were all invited up on the terrace of the main parish building to enjoy tea and coffee and pastries provided by the African Anglican church ladies--who behaved just as officiously as American church ladies do.  This was really an enjoyable extra for us, as it gave us all time to sit and visit instead of splitting up immediately and going to our separate host families.  The students also had interesting conversations with others from Australia, Sweden, and other places, which I am sure they don't normally have after church services at home.  They are getting glimpses into a group of volunteers and private contractors who are very international and have professional lives that take them to many different countries and cultures.  I hope that this, too, will open their eyes to how vast and varied the world beyond America is.

Unfortunately, my camera had decided to have its own mechanical meltdown Thursday evening, so I wasn't able to take any photos Sunday morning.  Perhaps I can take a few next Sunday if the students decide to attend church again.  They are not required to do so, but several expressed interest in returning, while others said they'd like to attend the nearby Catholic church.  There are very few Christians on Zanzibar, so likely 99% are either at the Anglican or Catholic service on Sunday morning.   One can usually tell whether or not someone is Christian by noticing if a woman is not wearing a headscarf. Very rarely, a couple in which the woman's head is bare will get on a daladala, and I have seen four bareheaded women on our street.  However, this is so unusual that it's a bit jarring when I notice the lack of scarves or veils.

From the Cathedral, John and I and Megan walked to the Stone Town Cafe once again.  It's touristy but has very good coffee at reasonable price and a lovely shaded outdoor seating area.  I like the times we have to sit and chat without all the incessant intrusions of schedule and duties we suffer at home.  And, while John and Megan work out school and student issues, I get to people watch and even eavesdrop a bit.  This coming weekend Sauti za Busara, the very famous Zanzibar musical festival, is happening, so tourists from all over the world are pouring in. (www.bursaramusic.com)

This little man asked me to take his picture and then wanted some money.

Not long after we returned back to the house, loud wailing broke out, and we knew that Hamad's grandmother had died. We knew that she had had a stroke and was not doing well, so her death wasn't a surprise.  However, we didn't, and still don't, know a lot about the cultural behavior in such a situation. Fadhila was seriously wailing and weeping, so Amin drove her to the family home, where the grandmother was, and that was about the last time we have seen her since.  Hamad came back from the mainland, where he works, and then he, too, went to where the body was.  Muslims bury their dead within 24-hours, so the burial was Monday morning.  However, the children told us that their mother--and I assume Hamad--would sleep at the family home for three nights. So, we have been and will continue to be until tomorrow some time unofficial houseparents.  The two big boys, Amin and Marthad, take care of themselves, but the younger children get a bit wild when left all alone.  I had thought that the dadas would keep everything under control, but silly me.  With Fahdila away, the dadas, too, have gone semi-wild and skimp on all of their duties, including making our meals.  I am just about crazed after breakfasts and suppers of nothing but bufflo bread, chai, and watermelon.

Monday (yesterday), I had my first visitation of innards unease and stayed in all day until late afternoon.  About 4:30, John and I walked up the street to the neighborhood "supermarket" to see if we could find something to supplement our meals and settle down my churning stomach.  To our amazement we found some yogurt in with the frozen items, so we sneaked back home and hid in our room while we ate it.  My kinder nature had led me to buy some strange pastry nuggets to share with the children, who let me know this was not their favorite sweet but ate them anyway.  I was glad for the help in eating the stuff since I thought it was pretty awful myself.

Sea Saturday, February 8

Saturday was the day for our first field trip with SUZA.  The school is supposed to provide our students with several trips throughout our month here, and they are usually on Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays.  Today our destination was actually double, to the Jozani Forest Reserve and Paje beach.  Departure was set for 9:00, and like the eternal optimistic he is, John told all the students to be on time. And, they were.  However, the bus driver and other staff were not ready, as the bus driver had to go fill up with gas, something he apparently could not have done the afternoon before. So, as we should have expected, we were at least an hour late in getting on the road.

Before we got on the bus, we were surprised that students from an entirely different program were also boarding.  Then three female teachers climbed on as well with Mwalimu Omar, one of our teachers.  Later, we stopped along the road to pick up yet another male teacher.  So, the bus was totally crammed.  Since I was sitting in a front seat, I couldn’t observe our students, and I certainly couldn’t eavesdrop.  No one on Earth can speak—or perhaps I should say shriek—more loudly than Zanzibar women.  Fahdila has always been high volume, but the three female teachers came close to the same decibel level, and all three spoke at the same time.  It was nearly deafening.  Even though, I assume the teachers were along to interact with their students, these women kept huddled on the bus with the air conditioning going when we stopped and got out to explore the Jozani Forest.

This forest reserve is home to the rare red colobus monkeys, so while the students went off with a guide too look for monkeys,  I seated myself  at a little thatch-roofed table and sipped Passion Fruit Fanta while Iread more of “The Goldfinch” on my Kindle.  I assuage my grief at not being able to hike by watching the human life forms that pass by.  In this case, all arrivals were white tourists, both European and American.  Since most tourists do not stay in Zanzibar for longer than three days, they never really encounter the local culture except what they view as they whiz by in taxis and tour buses or perhaps meet as crew on the boat tours they take.  So, I’m sure they do not know or do not care how vulgar they look in short shorts that don’t even cover their cheek bottoms or tops cut nearly to the navel.  The most shocking person was a young shirtless man—but he was being divinely punished by a raging sunburn.

Fortunately the monkeys cooperated and the students got to see quite a few even mothers with their babies. They also enjoyed walking into the mangrove area, which for some reason is John’s favorite part of this hike.  Everyone loaded back up on the bus, and we were off to the little beach town of Paje, where we would eat the lunches our host mothers had packed for us, swim a bit, and see seaweed planting and soap making demonstrations.  One realizes the small size of this island on a trip from Zanzibar City to Paje, which is from the west to east coast and yet takes only an hour despite ox carts, bicycles, pedestrians, and zig-zagging daladalas on the road.

Paje is supposedly some sort of party town, but I wouldn’t label the collection of drab cinder block and sun brick houses a town, nor did I see any party spirit along the rutted, sandy tracks that wove unplatted toward the beach.  The only color was the incredibly blue and aquamarine ocean and a few windsurfer kites flying above the water.  We all unloaded at a big house right at the edge of the beach, and went inside to eat our lunches.  The dadas had packed us some pieces of scrawny chicken, French fries, and shredded cabbage and cucumber slices.  I was quite envious of the special treats many of the students had to eat—tandoori chicken, samosas, mandanzis, carrots and tomatoes, and special homemade pastries.

After eating, everyone changed into swimwear and ran off to the beautiful white sand beach.  The shallow water stretched far out, so even though the tide was high, one could walk out for a long way.  Along the shore there were shells and hermit crabs to inspect as well.  Still, after an hour or so in the sun, everyone was ready to return to the house, where we were to have some demonstrations of local industries.

A women’s cooperative raises seaweed, which it then sells to Asian buyers.  A couple of women came to demonstrate how they start and grow the plants on long lines in the ocean.   Because the tide was high, the students couldn’t see the lines out in the ocean as they had in 2012, but they got to put a new line in place.  These same women also make seaweed soap and showed us the whole process from start to finish.  Their ingredients were coconut oil, dried and pulverized seaweed, caustic soda, and a bit of scented oil, which in less than ten minutes of stirring was ready to be poured into a mold to harden.  Naturally they sold bars of the finished product, which cost about 35 cents a piece.  Perhaps I should have loaded up on the soap, but I bought only one bar because I thought the seaweed bits might feel scratchy.

Making seaweed soap

Then it was back to town, where John, Megan and I left the students and went in search of some yummy fruit juice.  We decided to go to a nearby café—just a tiny hole in the wall place—and see how their juice was.  On our way, John spotted a barbershop and decided he would give a cut and beard trim.  Megan and I went on and had juice, which was very good and cheap, but John hadn’t shown up.  So, I ordered a plate of salad vegetables (carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbage, and onions), and Megan got a whole plate of food next door at Lukmann’s.  John still hadn’t come even after we had eaten our food, so we finally left the café and went back to the barbershop.  There he was still in the chair being thoroughly buffed and polished. There had been a big soccer match on which meant that lots of noncustomers had crowded in to watch it on the shop’s TV, and even the barbers were too distracted to keep on task. As usual, the barber had just put his clippers on #3 or #4 and given John a convict cut.  And also as usual, John assured me that it would grow out by the time we get home.

Note:  I few photos from this as as my camera decided to stop working on Thursday, and John forgot to put his memory card back into his camera.  Sorry.

Into the Weekend

Our laundry lines.

[The photos in this post will not appear where I wish to have them placed, so they will appear at their whims, but I shall try to maintain some sort of chronological order in my comments.  I hate it when my computer decides that it knows better than I what I want! ]

During the night between Thursday and Friday, it poured rain, and that seemed to cut the heatwave down to a more manageable temperature.  It was such a relief to wake up and not feel drenched in perspiration and to have the effects of a morning shower last for perhaps a long 15 minutes.  And, finally, my dear readers, you will not have to read another sentence of my whining about the wicked climate here--at least in this post.

Saumu (25) and Habiba (16) cooking ugali over charcoal.

I am still trying to figure out which name goes with which dada.  Just as I thought I had certainly got the identity of the eldest one, Saumu, one of the girls told me I was wrong.  Then, a sister of one of the dadas showed up for a visit, and I got more confused than ever.  I'm embarrassed by my lack of ID skills, but they are all young, veiled, and constantly flitting about.  These are young girls from rural areas whose families want them to earn some money for the family and maybe gain a better life for themselves.  I think Fahdila is a good employers, as past dadas want to return, and the three girls here now laugh and seem to have a good time --especially when left on their own.  It is the dadas who do all the daily cleaning, cooking, and laundry, as well as a great deal of the child care.  Fahdila has been so busy with her new restaurant enterprise that she is rarely home, and I don't think she has done any of the cooking so far.  Because of that, the meals have not been nearly as good as they were in 2012, when Fahdila made sure we got good Swahili dishes. Now, we get lots of bread, rice or ugali, and maybe red beans or occasionally roasted fish (my favorite!), but none of the pilau, biryani, or stews using coconut milk we had before.  Worst of all, we have almost no vegetables!  That seems odd to me since greens are so cheap.  Maybe the dadas don't know how to cook them.  Anyway, when the students talk about all the incredible food their host mothers cook for them, I get terribly jealous.

After John returned, had lunch, and rested a bit, we took a daladala downtown so that we could sit up on the open terrace of one of the pricey tourist restaurants overlooking the ocean and enjoy a bit of ocean breeze.   Of course, one must buy a beverage to enjoy the view, so I got an iced latte and John some sort of fruit smoothie.  I always wince at the "high" prices at such place, but then when I calculate the price in US$, I feel better.  For example, my iced latte cost me $1.88 and I got an hour of watching boats and fishermen and enjoying a lovely breeze.

We had agreed to meet Megan at 6:30 at Forodhani, the incredible open park area along the shore, where chefs from all over Zanzibar City set up food tables every night for the enjoyment of families and, of course, tourists.  When I first saw this place in 2012, I couldn't believe that such a place existed in Africa!  It's almost magical and so incredibly low key and safe that everyone feels comfortable walking about, visiting, chatting and bargaining with the vendors, and enjoying time with family and friends.  Once dusk comes, lanterns are lit and the whole area is one big fairyland.

Fruit at Forodhani

Women friends enjoying time together in the park.

One of the many tables of food at Forodhani

After we had found a place to sit, John went to select some food for us, and Megan began a conversation with the woman sitting close to us. It turned out that this very ordinary Muslim woman was an undercover cop armed with a camera with which she took pictures of any crime she saw and immediately called for backup.  Things got even more incredible when she whipped out her camera and showed Megan photos of past apprehensions.  Thieves are not treated at all well in Africa, and are usually severely beaten long before they get to any jail.  Then she pointed out other undercover cops dressed as ordinary citizens or park workers.  Because of its importance in the tourist trade, Zanzibar wants absolutely no crime in the Forodhani Gardens, so no wonder it always feels so safe there even at night.

Megan and the undercover cop.

The students planned to meet at Forodhani at 8:00, so John and Megan went to find them and check out how they were.  Of course, they were just fine, so we soon packed up and took a taxi, first dropping off Megan at her hotel and then continuing out to our home at Fahdila's.  All were in bed, but one of the dadas let us in the gate.

Habiba (16) doing the laundry.

Perhaps It's Thursday

Since yesterday was Wednesday and tomorrow will be Friday, it must be Thursday today.  With this climate and open schedule, I find that time is not well delineated for me, and the hours and days merge into a blur.  There is a reason life does not move quickly in the tropics.  For me the optimum temperature for brain function is probably 68º F, not a sticky 93º.  Every time I sit down, I lose time.  I forget what I meant to do; I doze; I remember what I meant to do and then decide not to do it; or I simply pick up my Kindle to read and fall asleep again.  How I envy the folks in Spokane with their 2ºF overnight temperature!

To escape my slothful stupor, I went downtown with John on a daladala (25 cents each) yesterday morning to spend the morning in the air-conditioned library of The American Corner.  The daladala ride from Fahdila's to near SUZA takes about half an hour and passes by streets crammed with repetitive small shops selling hardware, backpacks, clothing, shoes, kitchen items, beauty products, rice, and floor tiles.  There is no consolidation of merchandise at all, so within a short distance, one can see the same items for sale over and over again.  I don't know how a customer decides which little shop to purchase from. 

Daladalas have a legal limit for the number of passengers they can carry, but that is never strictly applied--unless there is a police check set up on a road.  Then, the dalas quickly pull to the side and disgorge extra passengers as fast as possible. Even though this is a Muslim area, there seems to be no effort to keep any gender separation, and men and women passengers crowd in tightly together.  I've noticed that while the men still dress in slacks and secondhand American tee-shirts proclaiming "I <3 NY," "Crane's Car Repair," or "Ski Aspen," the women, who must be veiled, have gotten a bit freer with their head dress.  There have always been distinctions in the type and quality of scarves or veils denoting class and wealth, but now there seems to be a trend toward decoration as well.  I have noticed ornate brooches, pearl-headed pins, sequins, and even fake flowers holding scarves in place.  If I thought I could do it unnoticed, I would love to take close-up photos of some of these personal fashion statements.

Since the American Corner doesn't open until 9:00, I walked a short distance to a small cafe I remembered from 2012, and ordered a pot of freshly roasted and brewed coffee ($1.25 for three cups)
and sat and enjoyed the street scene of uniformed school children, market women, and hundreds of others hurrying to their destinations.  An hour later as I walked back to the AC, the path was lined with small vendors, each with a single wooden crate or sturdy cardboard box for a display "counter." They were selling small bags of peanuts, shoe laces, sticks of gum, cigarettes, matches, lollipops, pencils, and other small items a passer-by might need. The daily profit made by such sellers must be infinitesimal.

Once I was at the American Corner, I sat quietly at a table and read until John and Megan got out of class.  They had had to discuss moving two students from their host family, as the students were basically being ignored and told they shouldn't take showers every day.  SUZA is excellent in responding to such situations, so by the time John and Megan showed up, new family arrangements were in place.  I hadn't seen Megan since we arrived last Saturday, so we all walked toward the Anglican Cathedral to Lukmann's for lunch together.  Lukmann'a has a wonderful buffet of modestly priced Swahili dishes and is frequented by as many or more Zanzibarians as tourists.  It's my favorite place to eat on the island, and I was not disappointed this time either.  Biryani, pilau, stews, beans, roasted chicken or fish, greens, carrot soup, samosas, chapatis, and on and on.  The three of us ate all we wanted for about $9.35, including beverages.  (Find out more online: http://migrationology.com/2013/11/lukmaan-best-restaurants-in-zanzibar/)  

It was late afternoon until we returned to Fahdila's, where the children were waiting for us. Unless we stay in our room with the door closed, we are open prey for the children, who can never get enough of crazy pet videos on YouTube, looking at books, or playing the game we brought for the boys.  There is no concept of personal time or space here.  It is only when the children go to bed at about 8:00 p.m. that John and I can have any peace in the living area of this house.

So, imagine how odd it felt when Fahdila left this morning for Dar es Salaam, telling me that I was in charge until she returned Friday morning.  Actually, although I may be officially in charge, there are three dadas, ages 16 to 25, who do all the work and know the routine the children are to follow.  However being left in a household with 6 children, 3 dadas, 4 dogs, and 1 monkey is a bit daunting.  (And, then I found out there are also small parrots sitting on eggs in nests up on the terrace.)  Things reached a screaming high about 4:00, when the children and the dadas were in the courtyard racing about with a ball and yelling at the top of their voices.  The dadas had removed their veils and looked like the young girls they actually are, cutting loose while their mistress was away.  I felt bad that because a visitor had come to see us I had to tell the merrymakers to quiet down a bit.

When Fahdila returns, I'll report that all went very well, as nothing was broken, no one got hurt, and the dadas will be sure everything is cleaned up and in place before Fahdila enters the house again.  I won't even mention that the little monkey got to romp around in the house a bit, too.  Nor, will I ask if it was okay for various teenage boys to wander in and out with Amin and Marthad, something I never see when Fahdila is home. Our visitor, Professor Hassan, looked a bit askance at the all the goings on, but I doubt he will mention anything about it either.  Ahlam very nicely served us tea and cookies, which I thought was remarkable for an 8-year-old to do all on her own.  All in all it was a good day for everyone here.

Help I'm Melting.... February 3 - 4

Everyone from Fadhila to taxi drivers tells us it is hotter now than usual even though February is normally one of the hottest months on Zanzibar.  My body stays in a permanent torpor even when all the fans are blowing and I'm drinking cold water from the refrigerator.  It's not until late afternoon and early evening that any breezes bring a hint of relief, and those breezes never enter our room, which is on the wrong side of the house next to the cages for the doves and kennels for the dogs. Last evening, John and I took a walk down our street past small shops and mishitaki (kebob) stands just to enjoy a bit of cooler air. We stopped at the neighborhood store with the best inventory so that John could buy another notebook.  I bought a 2-litre bottle of water and had drunk almost all of it by the time we returned home.  We also bought two chicken kebobs from one of the street vendors for only 30 cents a piece.  Already people in this neighborhood know that Fadhila's wazungu are back.

A street grill with octopus for sale

 John brought along a game "Inline," a knock-off of "Connect Four," as a gift for the older boys, Amin (18) and Marthad (16).  At first, they weren't sure it was their kind of thing--they have video games on their phones, of course--but one of their friends dropped by, and they soon had a heated tournament of some sort going.  The three little girls also begged to try it, and Aisha (12) soon got good enough to beat John a couple of times.  Shehe (3) just drops the markers in randomly and enjoys the noise they make.

John and the children

These first two days, yesterday and today, have not been very good ones for me.  Fahdila is as John says "a force of nature" who is always doing something.  She has had her spare car parts store in front of the house for a long time already, so now she is venturing further and setting up a small cantina near the airport.  It isn't meant to draw tourists as customers but rather airport workers, taxi drivers, etc.  She has already named it "The Executive Chef Cafe" and hopes to open it for business in a week or so.  I'm not allowed to go with her and see it yet.  Anyway, she gets up early to help the dadas get the children off to school at 7:30, and then she leaves too, and is gone all day until late afternoon.  When the three girls get home from school at 2:00 or so, they change into their white veils and head for madrassa until 5:30 or 6:00.  So, I have been left here alone each day so far and have done little except try to catch up on Facebook and read.  Not a healthy way to live at all.

John, of course, gets up so that he can be at SUZA for the morning Swahili classes with the students. Yesterday, they were all tested and then divided into two groups, basically those who had only one semester of Swahili at Whitworth and those who had three semesters.  Fortunately, John made it into the higher group and now feels pressure to study each evening.  By being in class he can monitor how the courses are being taught as well as keep regular daily contact with the students, who are scattered out in host families. I am the one who misses seeing the students now, though once we take field trips, I will see them then.

This afternoon, after John got home from SUZA at 1:30, ate lunch and then napped, we decided to take a daladala downtown and spend some time in a cafe that fronts on the ocean.  There was a lovely breeze there and it felt as if we were in a completely different place. We watched fishing boats going out for the evening and runners on the beach. There was a large group of Chinese at a table, too.  We have noticed more Chinese than we ever saw in 2012, many of them walking about with big cameras and shopping bags.  Fadhila told us that each month two big planes full of Chinese tourists fly into Zanzibar.

Fishing boats

After we left our beachside haven and walked to The Stone Town Cafe for coffee, we passed Tippu Tip's house, which is a UNESCO Heritage Site, and I spotted Chinese men in their underwear
inside.  John went in and saw more of the same and wondered what was going on.  In 2012, squatters lived in the house, but a passerby told John that the government had moved out the squatters and let the Chinese in because they promised to refurbish the house and turn it into a hotel.  When we returned home and John reported this to Fadhila, she went on a big anti-Chinese rant.  The locals resent the shabby Chinese goods that flood their markets and the fact that Chinese are also setting up little shops and competing with local merchants. Fadhila said they call the Chinese "washamba," which loosely translated means "hicks."

While the children are in school, the house is very quiet, but once they are home, it gets pretty lively. Our bedroom is probably the hottest room in the house; however, if we move to the living area, where there may be some breeze coming in and the fan works well, the children mob us and want entertainment.  They love  watching YouTube animal videos, looking at picture books and having me make animal noises (My lion's roar sends Shehe into shrieks of laughter), and exploring my Kindle. The girls cannot read the Kindle, of course, but they love making the pages change and going through my list of books.  Aisha is most fascinated with the dictionary function.  I realize that I introduced all of these activities to them, but honestly I had forgotten the addiction to repetition that children have.

Ammal (front), Ahlam and Aisha (back)

I had not forgotten how solitary our meals here would be, but it still seems odd when we go out to eat our meals and we are alone at the table.  Once in a while in the evening, Fahdila will join us with a glass of juice or cup of tea, but otherwise the table is set only for John and me, and the dadas tell us when it is time to eat. The chidren are usually gone to school by the time we eat our breakfast, and they are not home yet when we eat lunch, but in the evening, while we are eating our last meal, they are next door in the kitchen eating too, seated on a mat on the floor.  This is the way the whole family would normally eat together.  We've eaten like this at other Swahili homes, but Fahdila likes to set the table for us.

Dada Saumu and children at supper

Tomorrow, I'm getting up in time to ride the daladala into the city with John and spend the morning in the one place I know I can sit for free in air-conditioning:  The American Corner.  It's a small building donated by USAID to SUZA and has a little room with a small collection of donated books in English.  That's nice, of course, but more important is its air-conditioner.  Sitting on a metal chair for three hours of silent sustained reading will be a small price to pay for a bit of coolness.

Into Zanzibar, February 1-3

On Saturday, everyone finished packing up, saying good-by to their host families, and then converged at Kundayo, where a bus came to pick us up at 3:30 p.m.  I was very grateful that all the students were well, and that all seemed eager to travel to a very different place.  I did regret, however, that because we were flying in the early evening, it would be dark when we flew that last part of the way.  During the day, one can see many small islands and small boats in the aquamarine water between the mainland and Zanzibar.  When we arrived, only the lights of Stone Town and the surrounding city were visible.

On the bus for the airport.

The first sensation on leaving the plane was the wet wall of heat.  Here instead of a wind chill factor, they have a "real feel" temperature chart.  So, even though the temperature may be only 91º, the real feel is 102º.  Lucky for us, the temperature may dip down to a cool 87º at night.  The humidity, though, never seems to decrease, so here one does not perspire, one sweats like a swamp toad.  It's difficult to behave in a lady-like fashion when one has rivulets of sweat pouring into one's ears and eyes.

At the airport, I was met by our hostess in 2012, Fadhila, and her small children.  As we left customs, but were still in a secure area, I heard shouts of "Janet! Janet!" and saw the three little girls streak past the security guards to come bury me and John in a huge group hug.  None of the airport personnel made a move to stop them, so we walked out of the airport all together to where Fadhila and little Shehe were waiting.  Fadhila shrieked and hugged me too, and Shehe, who can talk now, said "hello" in English. The professors from SUZA were also there to greet us and all the students.  John's and my luggage was loaded into Fadhila's, car and I went directly to her house from the airport.

Welcome balloons on our door.

Meanwhile, the students and their luggage were loaded into a bus from the State University of Zanzibar (SUZA), and they were driven into the city to meet their new host mothers.  John and Megan were with them, but I was not, so I missed the fun of seeing the black clad Muslim women welcome their very American guests.  I must say though that our students have been absolutely stellar in how they dress, so I am confident that they will make a smooth adjustment to the culture here. 

On Sunday, everyone had a free day.  After lunch, John and I took a daladala into town and spent some time just getting re-acquainted with Stone Town. We saw two of our students sitting in the shade drinking some local juice concoction with two other students, one from Tulane and one from Indiana University's Flagship program. Obviously, we are not the only American students in town right now, but I hope we are the best behaved.  The local professors have told us horror stories about the behavior of some other groups.

As usual, John and I got lost and had arguments about which way to go in the narrow maze of streets that twist and turn in every surprising ways.  By the time we finally got to the edge of Stone Town, near the shore, I was ready to lie down and die from heat and thirst.  John asked a soldier where the Post Office was, and after another 10 minutes of plodding on, we made it to Kenyatta Street, the heart of the tourist area, and the one store which I knew for certain has air-conditioning, Memories.  It took me at least 5 minutes to cool down enough to do a credible job of pretend shopping.  In 2012, I was charmed by the merchandise, but this time, I didn't see a single item that tempted me.  Worst of all, the selection of spices was diminished, and there was not a single packet of turmeric on the shelves. I'll need to find out if there is a current turmeric shortage or if this was just a temporary glitch in inventory.

Once I had cooled down enough to function more normally again, we walked up the street a very short distance to the Stone Town Cafe, a place we had enjoyed often in 2012 even though it is a very obvious tourist spot.  It's a wonderful place to people watch, and their fruit and muesli mix is superb.
After we had each drunk a litre of water each, John ordered a Stoney and I a pot of coffee.  The coffee comes in a long-handled brass pitcher and is almost as thick as thin custard.  It is definitely some of the best coffee in the world and costs only $2 for a pot of 3+ cups.  I enjoyed every sip right down to the dark brown sludge at the bottom of my cup.

Friday evening, once both John and I were here at Fadhila's house, she fed us a dinner of fish soup, potato croquettes, and bread.  She also had made some incredible juice from mangoes, avocados, and lemons.  Then, yesterday for breakfast, we had fruit--mangoes and pineapple--an omelet, and imitation Laughing Cow cheese, and bufflo bread, a local type of loaf.  The largest meal is around 1:00p.m., and we had roasted chicken, chipatis, cabbage and cucumber salad, and French fries (chips).   The final meal of the day is ofter served as late as 9:00 p.m. and was chicken spinach soup, mandazi (deep fried dough), bread and watermelon.   In the late afternoon, perhaps around 4:00, the children bring us tea or juice and some sort of sweet treat such as a muffin or peanut candy.

The first thing the children wanted me to do was sit at the table and help them with their homework.  I had done that in 2012, and they were eager to sit with me and have me go over their lessons with them.  They are very smart little girls, but some much of their lessons are simply rote learning without any explanation of what things actually mean.  last evening Aisha was drawing topographical charts, but she had no idea of what they meant in reality--what a summit, pass, or saddle looked like in three dimensions.  John tried to show her using upside down cups for mountains, and I kept thinking how much a bit of paper mache would help. Ahlam was studying parts of the body and their functions, e.g. our eyelids protect our eyes from dirt and the sun, and I learned that our hair provides the friction necessary to keep things that we carry on our heads from falling off.  Ammal didn't have any homework, so I taught her the difference between hair and fur, paws and hands, fingernails and claws, etc.

Homework with Ammal

Aisha and Ahlam doing homework.

Amin, the eldest, is 18 now and seems to be a huge animal lover.  His dog, Ninja, had a litter of puppies a short while ago, but now all but one have been given away or traded for something.  Yesterday, Amin traded the last male puppy for an adult dog he wanted, so now he has three adults and one puppy.  The new dog was kenneled right outside our window and barked a lot in the night, so we got very little sleep.  Amin also has a tiny little monkey that loves to cuddle on his shoulder.  Fadhila told us sheepishly that the monkey is named "Winn" after Winnie Mandela. I guess Amin got the monkey during the time Mandela's death and funeral dominated the news.

Amin with his puppies

Hamad, Fadhila's husband, was here for the weekend.  He works as an electrical engineer on the mainland all week, so we never see much of him.  His English is very fluent, and he's always very congenial, but I feel that he tolerates us as Fadhila's hobby more than as a welcoming host. That may be a bit of a misperception though since as a Muslim male he would feel less familial with me than a western host would. This morning, Fadhila took Hamed to the port to catch a ferry back to Dar es Salaam, so I have been here alone with the dadas all morning.  There are now three new dadas, but I haven't  learned their names perfectly yet.

This morning, John got up earlier than I, and after breakfast, he took a daladala to SUZA to be there when the students came for classes at 8:00.  Normally, the Swahili classes will run from 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 noon, but today may be different, as everyone is taking a placement exam.  Even John and Megan plan on attending classes, but Megan's will be a much higher level than any others' since she has already had extensive Swahili study.  John's Swahili has improved some since 2012, but there are students who are stronger than he is now.  I remain the sluggard who would much rather read books on her Kindle than sit for 4 hours in a bare dusty classroom, trying to learn a language I didn't master well the first time I studied it at the University of Wisconsin in 1972.

During the night, the barking dog and heat kept me from sleeping well, so I finally got up and tried to get on the internet to see what I could of the Super Bowl. It was just about halftime, and I was stunned at the Seahawks' lead.  I could not get into FOX's live streaming, but I found CNN's almost up-to-the-minute videos of the big plays and was able to keep current that way.  John had gone back to sleep once he heard the halftime score, but I stayed somewhat awake until the very end.  What an incredible game!  Now, today, I am only semi-conscious and will need to take a nap this afternoon.