garage remodel!

So for those who don't know,  Sophy and I have been wanting to convert a garage into a work space since we bought our home a couple years ago.  The work is now very much underway.  We are two weeks in and here are the stages of construction.  Here are some photos...

Stage one - an empty garage in our driveway

Stage two - Sophy in the doorway

Stage three - demolition time

Stage four - more demolition

Stage five - prepping rebar for the foundation

Stage six - foundation!

Mandoo (dumpling) Oaxaqueño

somehow, no matter where I go I manage to locate the Coreans. I´ve got me some Corean radar. Even if there is only one in all of Oaxaca.

I enjoyed my first day of classes. Trying to express everything in the past is an interesting exercise in living in the present. That and catching up on everything that my class studied this week because I decided that a Friday would be a good day to get started. I tried to listen and pay attention while reading over a classmate´s notes and asking questions about things that they had gone over. Being a student again is a real wonderful exercise in compassion for my students, particularly the ESL ones. In the end, I realized that I had learned some of what was being taught about the past tense and things seem to sink in without as much struggle and forced repetition of foreign sounds. It was cool to learn something and then immediately feel that a whole new realm of communication opened up to me. I can actually tell someone what I did instead of finding myself limited to comments about what I am planning on doing.

Following class, I followed a good lead to check out Mercado Pochote, which is an organic foods market. Sophy and I had wandered this neighborhood together with no luck as we later found out it is only open on Fridays and Saturdays. The entrance to the market is through a door under an ancient arch that was the foundation for aqueducts built by some of the early conquistadors who lived in Oaxaca... well, they were no doubt built by the indigenous people though it was during the time in which conquistadors had begun to wreak their havoc. it was a magic fairytale moment. bending down, passing through the arch and coming into a wonderful market on the other side. i continued following a lead for tamales oaxaquenas, steamed corn stuffed with mole negro con pollo lovingly wrapped in banana leaf.

i passed an interesting and busy stand which was selling tostadas with all kinds of interesting ingredients like requeson with red bell peppers, queso fresco mixed with chiles, beets, nopal salads, bell peppers and cream, and a few bowls of things that were already sold out. adjacent were piles of freshly baked bread and various other goodies but nothing that appeared wrapped in any kind of leaf or corn husk.

where o where were the tamales?

well, best to ask and I was directed toward another stand, but as luck had it they had sold out. in fact, usually they sell out by 12 noon and they are only at the market on Fridays. slightly disappointed, i looked around to see what else might fill by tummy and better yet fulfill my desire for gastronomic adventure. i spotted a classmate eating something. on closer inspection it appeared to be rice wrapped in seaweed. Rice?! Seaweed?! it was more judgment than suprise. he told me it was like Oaxacan sushi and laughed. Ha, i´m not eating sushi in Oaxaca, i thought to myself.

in the end I ventured to the offending stand and noticed that there were steamed dumplings there in addition to samosas, pizzas, freshly baked breads, and incredible other goodies. what was going on? I ordered a veggie dumpling that was stuffed with rice vermicelli, carrots, squash, soy protein, mushrooms, y mas. This was tasting all too familiar but different at the same time. I took a look at the women at the stand - two younger fair skinned women and an older woman with designer glasses and a face that looked for lack of a better description East Asian. I thought maybe she´s Japanese? Well, she was kissing all her regular customers and chatting with them in Spanish. I just kept on paying attention to this hybrid dumpling which presented me with some local Oaxacan ingredients but in a familiar package. I returned my reusable plate and gave my familiar comment "muy sabrosa." The older woman looked at me, asked where I was from. Then she asked again when I said Estados Unidos. I responded that my parents were Corean and then the verbal fiesta began.

We went back and forth in Corean for about 30 minutes while her usual friends, customers, and staff were bemused. One asked, "are you friends?" Well, it did not take that long for us to become connected. It was a Corean moment of finding a compatriot in a far away land. Immediate human connection. In the course of learning about her husband who bakes bread, pizza and other goodies late at night and who went to Chicago, bought a used school bus and drove it back to Oaxaca (he plans on building a moving kitchen), she gave me a closer look at her food - jap chae, kimchee jun, bi bim bap. I must have been blind to have missed it all. It was all too impossible... my mind could not comprehend.

I´m off to her house tomorrow for kimchee jigae and duk bokki. Two things I never thought I would be eating in Oaxaca. Not to mention the mandoo (dumpling) oaxaqueno.

Azania High School - Dar es Salaam

It was my first day of school today. The day warmed up very slowly. The first thirty minutes I was waiting for my host – Joram. In that course of time, I was passed quite nonchalantly but numerous students and staff. I wondered what had happened to all the boldness that I am accustomed to on the streets. “Rafiki, this” “Rafiki, that.” It was an eerie silence. Wasn’t my foreigness intriguing? Give me something. At least, a raised eyebrow? Turns out that all I needed was an introduction. Once Joram took me around to all the classrooms, I could see their interest. I was excited to engage in dialogue with students about everything from Christopher Columbus to the Tanzanian school system to falling in love during school to "Ghostfaced Killer." Well, the latter was something I saw tagged on the classroom wall and wanted to talk about but never got to. By the time, Joram dragged me around the school for two hours I felt that I had met every one of the three thousand students at the school (minus those who were skipping and those who were coming for the afternoon session). The largest classroom had over 100 students trying to learn Biology. Turns out the US is not the only place with a shortage of science teachers!

It was a fun experience for me though I never got to do any observation, which was what I was looking forward to. It did seem to be pretty straightforward lecture style from what I could tell by looking at the board notes and the chair configurations. It was eerily similar to schools in Corea. My favorite exchanges. One student took issue with my point that Christopher Columbus did not discover America. He said that Columbus was the first one to name it and therefore he “discovered” it. Another student questioned how my education could be good if I did not learn anything about African history when I was in school (I had earlier told him this). Interesting to hear students with independent thinking. I wonder if this is a new development in education here since it have heard from others who have been here longer than I have that the lack of critical thinking is the major issue with the school system.

Osaka Japanese, I mean Corean, restaurant

I just arrived back at the YWCA from Osaka Japanese restaurant. Getting there was the real adventure. Left Dar at 2:30. Arrived at the closed gate of the restaurant at 5:00pm. In the meantime, Sophy was serving as my on-duty satellite service, texting me relevant information - address, phone number, walking directions, driving directions. In the end, I hopped into a car with three Asian guys who had been zipping and zooming up and down the main drag. Eventually, I flagged them down and they too were looking for the Japanese food Mecca.

It’s an incredibly fancy restaurant with indoor air-conditioned seating, complete with buzzers at each table just as you would find in a Corean restaurant stateside. The outdoor seating includes three huge grill setups. The owner is a nice man though I feel somewhat bad for him. Well, I felt somewhat bad for him and then later revised that sentiment. I was one of four tables for the entire 90 minutes that I sat there. He later told me that there was a much better turnout during the week because all of the diplomats head out of town on the weekends. They are on 2-3 year stints and therefore spend most of their weekends away from Dar Es Salaam.

But the food. The Japanese food was passable. The fish was excellent but the rice had too much vinegar, which is saying something from a Corean who likes his vinegar (though certainly not as much as Chungtech). On the other hand, the Corean meal was excellent. It started with a traditional pumpkin soup, smooth, rich and hearty. There were also adzuki beans tossed in for the occasional texture. The bibimbap came out beautifully displayed on a plate with the gochujang as the centerpiece (mixed with sesame oil as I like it). The local “spinach” had a strong astringent flavor that was a pleasant contrast to the mix of other flavors from the carrots, mung beans, beef, etc. And the miso soup! Pieces of kelp imbibed the soup with a strong taste of the ocean. Wow. Great Corean food in Osaka Japanese restaurant in the suburbs of Dar es Salaam. Never could have imagined it.

It’s been a fun trip to Dar es Salaam after all. I was somewhat dreading it. Not looking forward to time in the big, hot, dirty city. The YWCA has been a good spot for me with friendly staff and travelers. Though it is supposedly full to the house, it does not feel crowded. Men’s bathroom is very quiet and there have been no waits for the facilities. The first night here I turned away from the registration counter found that there was an Asian guy looking at me. I said, “what’s up?” or something to that degree of informality. Geung Suk suspected my Corean-ness and we ended up going out to dinner. It was a Corean-Kiswahili-English night. Oddly enough, it was the first of two.

Battle for the Soul of Tabora

In the blue corner, a young, brash Tanzanian woman wearing a kanga wrapped around her hips moves with familiarity about the vendors and customers. The mama lishas (street vendors) have set up their charcoal pits and are serving up delicious rice, fish, beans, spinach for 1000Tsh (less than a dollar). These are likely the people she lives her life with day in and day out. Except for me, of course. I’m the “mzungu” (foreigner) that she sings about it. Every now and then, my name “mzungu” comes up as she belts out her tune. She comes closer to me, perhaps aware that this will embarrass me further. She thrusts her hips sharply a few times. I’m starting to get the picture. The kisses blown in my direction solidify my reluctant suspicion. She’s propositioning me; still, I can’t tell if this is for real or if it’s merely meant as entertainment.

In any case, her loud singing of “mzungu” followed and preceded by various words unknown to me are clearly funny to those gathered for lunch. I’m laughing too. This was not what I had in mind when I walked out from the hotel to have a real Tanzanian lunch. I’m embarrassed but in good spirits. But there is one person who is clearly not amused by this scene.

There he stands in the red corner, gap-toothed and wearing a tie. Clearly not intending to have lunch, the joy and sex-filled singing stops him in his tracks. The sermon begins. He preaches with the conviction of the earliest missionaries who made the long, precarious journeys from Europe so many generations ago. His voice resounds as if he stands at the top of a pulpit, overlooking a cavernous cathedral. Really though, it’s just a few of us sitting quietly having lunch on a dusty roadside corner. Most people are going on about their business, ignoring the young preacher and his words, which will be remembered as the sermon delivered at dusty roadside street vendor stand.

What a strange confluence of individuals, economies, and ideologies at this streetside lunch spot. If this was indeed a battle for the soul of Tabora, it’s hard to say if any person won. It seemed more as if indifference or annoyance were the main victors, as in they were the main reasons why most citizens of the Tabora-ites were shutting down their ears to the words of this preacher and instead laughing to the words of the song. Or maybe, it is universal truth that songs about sex will always serve as better entertainment than words of moral condemnation.

Mt. Meru. – hiking adventure times 44.

The solitude of which Thoreau wrote about is one of the joys of retreating from city life. The visual landscape changes along with the mental. I was looking forward to hiking -- the solitude, the physical challenge, and the natural beauty. It was with some reluctance that I decided to save money and join up with a high school group of 15 students from the UK. I figured that ultimately it would be a safer way to travel than walking alone on a mountain at 4000+ meters of elevation. The adage about never knowing what you are going to get when you order in Africa (I think Sophy told me that one) seemed to apply also for hiking tour operators. Sunday afternoon I show up to find out that my group has now ballooned from 15 to 44! Well, at least they had the sleeping bag that they promised me.

The four day trip turned out to be phenomenal and phun. Some of the best moments were having casual conversation with the young people. Funny British humor. Great stories of friends being attacked by tree branches. PK who was so polite that he tackled a rugby dummy and then apologized to it. Later when Nick confronted him about being too polite, he said sorry. It was remarkable that some of them at least took an interest in me without much prompting. Usually, I have to work significantly hard at making connections, but I found that with a number of students we spoke at ease about literature, meditation, religion, and life in the UK.

The hardest moment on the hike was not the last 90 minutes, slogging it step by step, climbing higher and higher, feeling out of breath despite my walking meditation pace. Socialist peak stood at 4566 meters and for the last 200 meters I swore that I was standing in front of it. Each time we climbed the peak, there was a higher one behind it. As I was saying, this was not the hardest moment. The first night, we arrive behind the other groups to Maria Kamba hut. All the four bedroom rooms are taken and we are shown to our quarters. A bunk room for 22 people. Check that, 22 sweaty adolescent boys with no intention of showering. 22 people squishing around in two inches of mud which surrounded the bunk room, tracking it in and out. That night, I barely slept three hours, holding my breath against the funk, trying not to inhale the invisible microbes floating in the air as the young people coughed through the night, and sweating unbelievably given the cold air outside. With windows closed, the combined heat generated by our bodies raised the temperature way past “sleeping bag” level. I was not looking forward to another night like that.

And the hike itself was brutal. We awoke at midnight the following day after two hours of sleep. I ate a breakfast of biscuits (cookies) and tea along with a hard-boiled egg that I had salvaged from my first day’s lunch. By 1am we were beginning our six hour trek up towards the summit, a long trail of headlamps dotting the nightscape. In my impatience at needing to stop as we waited for the line in front to move past the next obstacle, I imagined my body temperature dropping as I struggled to stay warm in the -10 C wind conditions. I grabbed a guide and we moved ahead. After making good progress, somewhere above 4000 meters the headaches hit me and I worried about altitude sickness. Don’t people die from this? I asked my guide if he had a radio to call in for help just in case. I think he laughed. Then I really started to worry. I looked down the mountain. I looked up toward what I thought was the peak. It all looked like the same cold white cloud that we had been hiking through for the last two hours. No sign of any groups making the ascent. No one said that ascending to the peak of socialism would be easy. I trudged on, breaking every minute or so. Painfully, I climbed to the top. The peak was truly not the best part of this hike. Coming down was absolutely stunning. Now that the sun was up (notice not out but up), we could see a bit of where we were going and where we had been. The views were beautiful. I hope you enjoy.

Did I mention, I’m never doing this again. As in, forcing myself to adjust to high altitudes and pushing my body to climb a cold isolated peak in a foreign country. As in, paying for lots of people to carry all kinds of ridiculous things other than my clothes – propane tanks, sacks of rice, eggs, sausages, bread, etc – up the mountain for 6000 Tsh a day. Yosemite sounds good to me.