Archive for the 'Tanzania' Category


Where I Live

When Prof. Zero (you should really read her remarkable blog) posted a favorite cities meme, I thought she put too many parameters around the cities we could nominate.  I was particularly put off by the size requirements, as I’ve come to learn in school how varied cities are in size and scope, not least because the boundaries between cities and suburbs, and urban vs. sub-urban life is rarely as clear as we pretend.  And bigger does not necc. equal more urban.

In response to protests, including mine, she offered up what she called a “self-tagging town meme,” to which I finally responded the other night with a stream-of-consciousness thread of my favorite cities, that included a heavy dose of random memories and specific characteristics that matter to me in cities.

One of the things I love about the M.A.S. is that he and I both look at cities critically and value urban life deeply – mainly, we crave the density, walkability, accessibility and diversity that many cities offer (what is with suburbs and the absolute absence of sidewalks, for instance???).  I believe that if we go through life together, we will be able to live in a variety of places, because I trust our ability to knowledgeably evaluate and recognize if places have the characteristics that we seek at a much deeper level than a schools/taxes/property values equation (though all of that goes into the mix).

Though I hope you’ll read the professor’s posts and my comments, in short, I gave a shout out to:

1) Hartford and economically struggling but ethnically vibrant old NE/MW towns everwhere;

2) Boston, ‘cuz that’s my hood;

3) Krakow, ‘cuz its collegiate, historic and amiable personality – not to mention Krupnik honey liquer – nurtured me through the very dark hours of visiting Auschwitz and Birkenau;

4) New Orleans (though this is more of a love-hate relationship);


5) Memphis.

Seattle, Minneapolis, Houston, Bismarck, ND and Vegas (“Adult Disneyland”) got shout outs too.  L.A., London, NYC (public transportation “nirvana”) and Dar are in my big city category.

Cities I could live w/o:

– Chattanooga, though I did find its train-station-sized-airport charming;

– Ft. Worth;

– St. Louis;

– Philly (“somebody else’s Boston”);

– Atlanta.


Of course, there’s no place like home, or my couch, at this moment, for that matter.

What are your favorite cities?  Bonus points for your stories.


Tanzanian Leader Takes AIDS Test

Now this is what I call leading by example…


Oh, I got sh*t to say…just not here

Though it appears I’m suffering from some serious writer’s block this month (does Pfizer have a pill for a blogger’s performance anxiety???), I am chiming in on my usual sites around the net.  I’ve been endlessly haranging Wesley about immigration, and he’s been so responsive and deliberative that wonkish-types from that other Cambridge university are trying to recruit him to their inner circle (stay strong, Weboy!).  Will it be long before his banner reads:

Media, Politics, Fashion, Movies, Music and Immigration. In roughly that order.

Meanwhile, over at Pandagon, I’ve been – rather sloppily - weighing in on specific cases of our immigration fiasco (mainly, that the wife of missing-in-Iraq soldier Alex Jimenez – from Lawrence, MA – is possibly under threat of deportation at the moment).  Another commenter, however, brought up this story of a man beaten to death last night when the car he was riding in hit a little girl (she was not injured).  It’s an ugly world we live in when our country reminds me of Tanzania, and not in a good way. 

In Dar es Salaam, where I lived, theft was common – during my last week there, a young boy stole my cell phone out of my hand through the open window of the car I was riding in while we sat in traffic.  It happened so fast it took a moment before I bellowed, “MY SIMU!” (simu is swahili for phone).  And he was gone.  My E. African friend Sala got out of the car and tried to question all the Tanzanians standing on a nearby porch who witnessed the theft, but it seems no one saw anything.  Given I was leaving and it wasn’t my phone to begin with but an extra of my American friend Kristina, the incident turned out to be more email fodder than anything else.  But K had warned me when I joined her in TZ several months prior, never to yell thief (“Mwezi”) if robbed, as mobs were known to chase culprits down and beat them severely/to death.  Here, it brings new(er), horrible meaning to Don’t Mess with Texas. 

Sigh.  As part of my blog-soul-searching these days, I’m circling the world wide web looking for new blog communities and some inspiration for my next big re-org of the RP.   I’m tired of feeling like I’m writing in relative isolation, though it’s no easy task sifting through 30 million blogs for even a few you’d like to visit, comment on, and link to regularly.  Wah.

Here’s hoping that in the interim, I get another shout-out on Universal Hub for repeating the M.A.S.‘s comment that Boston public access television is like some version of state-run tv, given his theory that 24 hours a day one can find Mayor Tom “Mumbles” Menino in front of the camera (the latter link has some amusing audio).  Watching Menino go so far as to speak at the blessing of the Pine Street Inn/Partners Healthcare’s new outreach van finally prompted the comment.  (What can I tell you, we’re urban planning nerds; we were enthralled). 


Ee-i Ee-i Oh

Fresh off a wedding weekend in the Hamptons, I’m both inspired by (and all set for now, thanks, on) the quaint and rural-ish charm of eastern Long Island, and surly about being back in my own urban world chock full of assignments and looming responsibilities.  With 16 web pages still opened on my PC as I sort through the news and blog posts from the weekend, my need for commentary eludes me.  Instead, I long to be sitting again with D- on the back porch of her brother’s Bridgehampton rental while the M.A.S. swims and sunburns on a glorious Monday afternoon, or to be submitting to Jake’s teasing over brunch in E. Hampton on Sunday about my “logical” falling for the M.A.S. (this was Jake’s summation of my story of how I “decided” to date the M.A.S. after carefully considering the evidence that I was a) choosing not to date anyone else even though he and I were just “friends,” and that b) though we were only “friends” I was spending all my time with him).   My gorgeous pink and red rose bridesmaid bouquet is drying in front on me on the kitchen table; I can still smell the flowers’ fading scent.  I’ve got a plethora of new freckles and some modest color of my own after a couple hours at the beach with a Vogue and my man on Sunday afternoon.

But I’m compelled to post, to not lose the momentum of last week and for you, dear readers, because I know visiting a blog that hasn’t been updated in awhile is as frustrating as repeatedly checking an Evite to see if those curmudgeonly “Not Yet Replied” offenders have finally decided to RSVP.  Henceforth is my Hamptons-inspired, modified “link farm,” acknowledging that I’m fulfilling neither the letter nor the spirit of the definition of “link farming,” but am instead just posting a bunch of stuff I enjoyed reading recently in the hopes that you’ll check them out too.  

Obviously, let’s start with his post about gentrification in which Wesley leads in by calling me a genius (ignore those other links that got my hackles up)…

Continue reading ‘Ee-i Ee-i Oh’



Two nights ago I had dinner w/a former colleague – a terrific single woman who I never really got to know before as she was always several degrees above me in our rigid office hierarchy.  Over dinner, I promised her I wouldn’t evacuate the city w/o her should it come to that; she feared having to get out of the city on her own, sitting in traffic for hours w/no one to talk to and scheme with.  Interestingly, despite often feeling so alone here or in the world in general, I never worried about having to get out of NOLA on my own.  I always assumed I’d evacuate with my roommate in the direction of his relatives in Texas (assuming a flight north wasn’t an option).  In exchange for promising Robin I’d take her with us, she agreed to bail me out of Orleans Parish Prison should my unpaid moving violation from February ever catch up with me.

It’s weird feeling reliant on or expectant of my roommate in this way.  We have an awkward intimacy – not quite friends but more than colleagues – stemming from a past friendship turned affair that ended predictably explosively and painfully.  While I take a perverse pleasure in being the antagonistic roommate that eats his food and blocks his car in the driveway, i also find myself eating ice cream with him at midnight, and playing co-host to a dinner party we’ve disjointedly thrown together.  Because when you are on your own in foreign environments – be it Dar es Salaam or, sadly, post-Katrina NOLA ’06 – companionship takes on a different form.

This guy Ronald once summed it up for K in Dar.  He was this shady mechanic who drove her absolutely batty by charging her too much for shoddy work that took too long, while at the same time making sure she had spare cars and doing other favors for her to make her life easier in Dar.   Once, as she thanked him, he said simply, “you don’t get by on your own here.”  And it was true.  People stayed with you when you got sick, picked you up when your car broke down, gave you a place to stay when you needed one, lent you their clothes, invited you on trips at a moment’s notice, and generally made sure you were never alone unless you deliberately went out of your way to be.  When I came home from dinner with Robin I said to my roommate, “do you have an evacuation plan?” He replied he’d head to TX to his family, and added, after a moment, “you’d be welcome to join me.”  “Of course!”  I thought to myself.  Doesn’t he know how the ex-pat system works??




I am sitting in one of my favorite sundresses, a $5 purchase in Dar that fit me and the steamy weather perfectly.  Two years later in New Orleans, the dress is equally suitable.  I have spent the morning in my pj’s going thru my TZ photos, to get them ready for a much belated album.  Probably not a coincidence to finally go thru this process as I get reaquainted with NOLA and its people and all of the thoughts it stirs up each time. 

Last night some MIT and Harvard-KSG folks sat around in my living room drinking Abita and eating pork ribs and red fish.  Good times.  Talking to one of them for awhile, we compared notes on his stint in Uganda and mine in Dar (Uganda, with Kenya and TZ, is one of the main countries comprising E. Africa).  His work in Uganda was disaster-related, so we shared that in common as well.  We talked about how much our experiences here reminds us of our experience overseas.  One of his more astute comments was how while the contents of the trash heaps differed in E. Africa from here, there were nonetheless trash heaps in both places unlike we’ve seen elsewhere.  I laughed and described to him how Kristina and I used to say, “turn left at the trash heap” to guide visitors to our apartment in the Upanga section of Dar.   

One friday afternoon in Dar Kristina and I gave our co-worker Limbe a ride to a “bar,” where he joined other men for “happy hour.”  It was essentially a wall-less thatched hut on the side of the road with a bartender and some stools to which men pulled up and drank beer.  Yesterday afternoon – Friday around 5pm – I rode my bike through Central City and passed a group of black men seated around a plastic table with cups and bottles of beer in front of them.  Though the house structure behind them was sturdier than Dar’s roadside bar, it nonetheless served as some sort of commercial establishment where these men probably gathered regularly.  There are many many informal small businesses here that operate out of people’s homes – living rooms converted to restaurants such that you almost don’t notice it’s also a residence until you pass through a non-commercial kitchen to use the bathroom in a back hall stacked with buckets, brooms, shoes, etc.  Like Dar, and low-income, often minority communities in the U.S., informal entrepreneurship abounds as people disconnected from or lagging in the mainstream economy figure out ways to support themselves and their families.  Touching this is one of my favorite aspects of my work.

There are other means of connecting and bridging the many worlds I’ve moved through down here.  Ironically, it was a 2 hour conversation with a white, male community leader last night that brought me back around to my a) Lower Manhattan mostly immigrant SB owner stint and b) low-income, minority business development work around the Southeastern U.S.  Last night I heard from the co-chair of the Broadmoor Improvement Association about the community’s plan to rebuild.  Though I have worked with other CDCs here, I rarely experience the vitality and intimacy of working closely with community representatives who work to change what they live through on a daily basis – be it a sudden disaster like 9/11 or Katrina, or the chronic trauma of disinvested inner-city neighborhoods – like I used to in these other communities and as I did last night.  Either because they are recent transplants to NOLA, disconnected executives from national intermediaries, or New Orleanians who lack leadership and energy, most of the folks I’ve interacted with in other neighborhoods have lacked this all-consuming, personal fighting spirit that is so inspiring. 

On Friday, the other member of the M.A.S arrives for his third visit to one of our favorite stops on our emerging world tour (NYC and Boston being the 2 other destinations so far).  With this white man on Monday night I sat in a parked car in Mattapan (one of Boston’s black and reputedly roughest neighborhoods, along with Roxbury and parts of Dorchester), while we consulted a map to figure out how to get to a new restaurant in Dorchester.  Through my open window I looked around while he figured out where we were, and since I’ve been thinking about his practiced ease at moving through not only black communities but new and unfamiliar environments.  Like me, he appears to put down roots in each city that becomes his host for however long a period of time.  This, along with his ability to consume large quantities of alcohol, his appreciation for my Masshole roots, and his need to analyze everything, is one of the many shared aspects that led to our establishment of the Mutual Admiration Society over lunch at NOLA’s Marigny Brasserie back in January. (The M.A.S. currently is headquartered in Boston, MA.)

Now friends from this winter and spring in NOLA are leaving as the summer sets in, and a new group is arriving.  Just as in Dar, with the constant welcome and good bye parties, there is a never ending stream of people to get to know and drink with here.  And with each visit, New Orleans becomes a new node in a network of friends – old and new – and memories that stretches from Boston/NY/DC to the Gulf Coast and abroad. 


Global Cocktail Network

i’m in a bar in Krakow tonight (the “new york”-ish schmancy place; I always find that one), and this threesome of brits behind me start talking about this african bailey’s irish cream equivalent called amarula, which i drank in tanzania. so here i am in poland, feeling like manhattan, listening to brits talk about african liquor with which i’m familiar.

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