Yesterday I solved a mystery. Just recently the local store has started carrying toilet paper, which I found weird, as I am the only person who would buy it. It was a mystery. Then I went to the seventh grade graduation, and was made to sit up in front of the graduating class and their parents in a special little lean-to made for the day. It was all decorated with brightly colored kangas (a sheet of fabric worn by women in East Africa) and also with none other than bright pink toilet paper. Mystery solved.
Last year I showed up to the graduation and was handed a schedule that had my name on it, and a word I didn't understand in Swahili, which I soon found out means 'speech,' and an allotted time of 10 minutes. I was fresh out of training, so it was a blundering, half-English attempt, which lasted about 30 seconds. Which is probably why I was not invited to give a speech this year.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Notes from a visit to Dar es Salaam
9/15/07
Today I made a friend. She came up to me at the orphanage while we were doing some permaculture on the grounds. She held my hand, and swung from my arm, and rode around on my hip. I figured the tiny little girl was about 4, but she would suddenly burst out with incredibly confident instructions for her friends: "get that water" or "let me see what you're holding." She said she was 7, but it's hard to tell when nobody celebrates birthdays, and many don't know when their birthdays are. We spent the day at the orphanage here in Dar and were part of an ongoing project to turn the grounds into a thriving, food-dense farm and gardens.
9/14/07
I'm in the land of giants. Living in a village where I can see the tops of almost everyone's heads, it's striking to come to Tanzania's biggest city where I'm not towering over the majority like an awkward snowman. And there are so many melanin-lacking individuals who I have never met. People like Dar because you can get anything you could ever imagine here, but you can also get anything you could ever imagine stolen here. My friend just bought a cell phone for a villager, and had it for 5 minutes before he was ever-so-gracefully relieved of it while using public transportation. I like to stick to splurging on food (from ice cream to elegant Ethiopian food), as it's safe once you get it in your mouth.
One thing I like though is the feeling of meeting a Hehe person here in the melting pot, and the feeling of solidarity that grows between us when they realize that I live with other Hehes. Strangely enough it's a stronger feeling than when I meet another American.
9/11/07
It's time for another quiz:
What is the most culturally inappropriate thing you could do in my village?
a. Pick your nose while giving a speech
b. Ask someone his religion when you've only just met him
c. Ask a pregnant woman when her baby is due
d. Tell your friend she is fatter than a barrel, an elephant, a blimp, etc.
To be honest, I have been involved in all of these situations. I have not, personally, picked my nose during a speech, but it will surely be some sort of rite of passage. I am constantly having to fend off offers to be baptized at the Roman Catholic Church or be saved at the Pentecostal one; usually by people I've just met. And I have, of course, been compared to all-things-fat in this world. I'm told I must stay in Tanzania, because the weather here likes me, which is why I am so healthy and plump. But I have avoided the embarrassing subject of pregnancy, which is referred to as an illness. The correct answer is therefore d. A pregnant woman hides her belly as best she can, coming down the path suddenly with a newborn, causing me to suspect delivery-by-stork or baby-stealing. It is best to also avoid asking people directly about their husbands, instead referring to them as the father of their mutual child, as in "Baba Gail". That would be my father. Many of the very traditional women are more likely to utter the word "my fungal infection" than the words "my husband."
9/15/07
Today I made a friend. She came up to me at the orphanage while we were doing some permaculture on the grounds. She held my hand, and swung from my arm, and rode around on my hip. I figured the tiny little girl was about 4, but she would suddenly burst out with incredibly confident instructions for her friends: "get that water" or "let me see what you're holding." She said she was 7, but it's hard to tell when nobody celebrates birthdays, and many don't know when their birthdays are. We spent the day at the orphanage here in Dar and were part of an ongoing project to turn the grounds into a thriving, food-dense farm and gardens.
9/14/07
I'm in the land of giants. Living in a village where I can see the tops of almost everyone's heads, it's striking to come to Tanzania's biggest city where I'm not towering over the majority like an awkward snowman. And there are so many melanin-lacking individuals who I have never met. People like Dar because you can get anything you could ever imagine here, but you can also get anything you could ever imagine stolen here. My friend just bought a cell phone for a villager, and had it for 5 minutes before he was ever-so-gracefully relieved of it while using public transportation. I like to stick to splurging on food (from ice cream to elegant Ethiopian food), as it's safe once you get it in your mouth.
One thing I like though is the feeling of meeting a Hehe person here in the melting pot, and the feeling of solidarity that grows between us when they realize that I live with other Hehes. Strangely enough it's a stronger feeling than when I meet another American.
9/11/07
It's time for another quiz:
What is the most culturally inappropriate thing you could do in my village?
a. Pick your nose while giving a speech
b. Ask someone his religion when you've only just met him
c. Ask a pregnant woman when her baby is due
d. Tell your friend she is fatter than a barrel, an elephant, a blimp, etc.
To be honest, I have been involved in all of these situations. I have not, personally, picked my nose during a speech, but it will surely be some sort of rite of passage. I am constantly having to fend off offers to be baptized at the Roman Catholic Church or be saved at the Pentecostal one; usually by people I've just met. And I have, of course, been compared to all-things-fat in this world. I'm told I must stay in Tanzania, because the weather here likes me, which is why I am so healthy and plump. But I have avoided the embarrassing subject of pregnancy, which is referred to as an illness. The correct answer is therefore d. A pregnant woman hides her belly as best she can, coming down the path suddenly with a newborn, causing me to suspect delivery-by-stork or baby-stealing. It is best to also avoid asking people directly about their husbands, instead referring to them as the father of their mutual child, as in "Baba Gail". That would be my father. Many of the very traditional women are more likely to utter the word "my fungal infection" than the words "my husband."
Monday, September 10, 2007
Livestock, Love and Bricks
It is the cows' job to stand looking radiant and expensive. It is the female guests' job to cut up onions and greens, pick rocks out of the rice, and gawk at the radiant cows. It is the male guests' job to become intoxicated and be impressed by the magnificent cows. It is the bride's job to hide in her room, pretend she has no affiliation with the groom, be completely bored with the entire event, and eat half of a fried chicken. She does not get to look at the cows. It is the groom's job to become intoxicated, pretend the bride does not exist, and to consume the other half of the chicken. The couples' parents' job is to negotiate the price that will be paid for the girl, to stomp-dance to drum music, and to become less intoxicated than the guests. At this particular bride-price-reception party it was my job to try and say interesting things about America, eat rice with beans and chewy meat, gawk admiringly at the cows while trying to pretend I was unfazed by the trade of bride for bovine, and to fry up the chicken in a smoke-filled little kitchen. I'd say it was a successful party.
Also, I have recently acquired livestock. Well, a livestock. I have a pig, which now doubles as a garbage disposal. It is the type of pig that apparently comes from Guinea. My seven-year old neighbor likes to bring his Guinea pig over and exclaim "They love each other!"
The future president of Tanzania is a 7th grade girl in my village. She revealed this to me in one of two life skills lessons I was teaching before their graduation. I'm not sure if anyone has ever asked these kids what they want to be when they grow up, but there are potential doctors, drivers, pilots, politicians, and a single scientist. We also got to play "Vichwa juu, saba juu" or "Head's up Seven up." I was also treating them as Guinea pigs, figuring out what works and what doesn't. It was the only time I've ever been clapped for at the end of a class. So I think I probably did all right.
I will never look at a brick the same way again. No, not because I was hit in the head with one, but because I now have learned the art of brick-making. It was a job that I actually did not get fired from, despite warnings from villagers that it would be impossible/hilarious for me to try. The bricks will be a drop in a bucket towards building a secondary school and a dispensary. To make bricks you need water and clayey soil. You pour the water on the soil and stomp around in it until it is a consistency somewhere between that of playdough and applesauce (much like ugali, if you are familiar with that). Then you must slap it into a brick frame and plunk it onto a flat piece of land. After the bricks have dried out a couple days, they must be stacked into a giant kiln-like structure into which firewood can be loaded. Then you have bricks!
It is the cows' job to stand looking radiant and expensive. It is the female guests' job to cut up onions and greens, pick rocks out of the rice, and gawk at the radiant cows. It is the male guests' job to become intoxicated and be impressed by the magnificent cows. It is the bride's job to hide in her room, pretend she has no affiliation with the groom, be completely bored with the entire event, and eat half of a fried chicken. She does not get to look at the cows. It is the groom's job to become intoxicated, pretend the bride does not exist, and to consume the other half of the chicken. The couples' parents' job is to negotiate the price that will be paid for the girl, to stomp-dance to drum music, and to become less intoxicated than the guests. At this particular bride-price-reception party it was my job to try and say interesting things about America, eat rice with beans and chewy meat, gawk admiringly at the cows while trying to pretend I was unfazed by the trade of bride for bovine, and to fry up the chicken in a smoke-filled little kitchen. I'd say it was a successful party.
Also, I have recently acquired livestock. Well, a livestock. I have a pig, which now doubles as a garbage disposal. It is the type of pig that apparently comes from Guinea. My seven-year old neighbor likes to bring his Guinea pig over and exclaim "They love each other!"
The future president of Tanzania is a 7th grade girl in my village. She revealed this to me in one of two life skills lessons I was teaching before their graduation. I'm not sure if anyone has ever asked these kids what they want to be when they grow up, but there are potential doctors, drivers, pilots, politicians, and a single scientist. We also got to play "Vichwa juu, saba juu" or "Head's up Seven up." I was also treating them as Guinea pigs, figuring out what works and what doesn't. It was the only time I've ever been clapped for at the end of a class. So I think I probably did all right.
I will never look at a brick the same way again. No, not because I was hit in the head with one, but because I now have learned the art of brick-making. It was a job that I actually did not get fired from, despite warnings from villagers that it would be impossible/hilarious for me to try. The bricks will be a drop in a bucket towards building a secondary school and a dispensary. To make bricks you need water and clayey soil. You pour the water on the soil and stomp around in it until it is a consistency somewhere between that of playdough and applesauce (much like ugali, if you are familiar with that). Then you must slap it into a brick frame and plunk it onto a flat piece of land. After the bricks have dried out a couple days, they must be stacked into a giant kiln-like structure into which firewood can be loaded. Then you have bricks!
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