Today was the end of a two-week visit from my mother and sister that was SO… well let me just tell you what happened. I’ll start from the end and work toward the beginning in the spirit of the last Seinfeld episode.
Animal Soaps
I’d bet most people who go on safaris in Africa are really excited about seeing certain animals, chirping “we want to see lions and leopards!” in the ears of their tourist-weary guides. But we were more interested in animal drama than sighting a particular animal. On my wish-list were elephants knocking coconuts from trees and giraffes giving birth. While our guide seemed programmed to zip around Ruaha National park chasing down the big predators, he seemed baffled at our excitement at baby elephants scratching their toes on sharp sticks, impala males bashing heads over a female, giraffes snaking their crazy black tongues into their own nostrils, hippos courting and zebras flapping their lips in our direction. He seemed disappointed at the end of the trip that the lions had been h
iding, but we were satisfied. Our guide was a nice guy, at least I thought so until I heard him yell “Bastard!” as we barreled down the dirt road. Nobody else was around so I figured he was referring to one of us. It took me quite a while to figure out that he was referring to a bird, which is in fact a “bustard,” which was munching happily on dung in the road. So the guide and I were friends again. He seemed to think that our fascination with lizards was as odd as being enthralled by the light fixtures at a theme park. We had an excellent time, and I still have the Indiana Jones theme song stuck in my head (inspired by a suspension bridge we walked along over crocodile-infested waters).
At the lodge we stayed in we were greeted with moist towels and passion-fruit juice. It was quite a contrast to normal Peace Corps life. A group of Masai dancers were introduced by the host as a “tribe who have consciously rejected modernization and retained most of their traditions.” My sister almost peed her pants laughing when in the middle of the dance, one of them answered a call on his cell phone. If you ask my sister what animals she saw in the park, she might start the list with “jiggers.” These are the little black insects that burrow into your feet and lay their eggs. She showed me her foot, and when I congratulated her on a classic jigger case, she acted like I had given her a present. Due to her incredible ability to pick up Swahili and Kihehe, her experience with jiggers, her penchant for the squat toilet, and her ever-improving attempts to carry water on her head, I would say she should be an honorary Peace Corpse.
Fresh Fish
Paradise is on the northern shore of Lake Nyasa in Mbeya. At a little resort at Matema Beach with our taxi-driving friend, Onne, we relaxed on the water at the base of the Livingstone Mountains. An incredibly patient guide there took us out on a fish-scale-covered dug-out canoe to a perfect snorkeling spot, where we stalked bright blue and gold fish, and hunted for crabs under the rocks. I showed a couple of kids how to put on the masks, but they seemed to think it was more fun to look at the world above the water with them on, and I thought it might not look good if I forced their heads underwater. I was allowed to try and paddle the canoe on the way back, but apparently the laws of physics do not apply to me, and I was unable to keep the boat from wandering off wherever it wanted to despite following the guide’s exact directions. Despite this, he didn’t fire me, instead letting me take all the time I needed to maneuver us onto the beach. On the way down, Onne had bought enough fruit to feed all of Iringa for a month, and on the way back he replenished his supplies, unable to return from such a trip without presents. And he finally accepted the fact that he couldn’t keep fresh fish in the trunk for the 6 hour drive back.
Sunrise over Lake Nyasa
Fish from the lake for dinner
“Your mother drowned the dumb ones,” was one of the many catch phrases we taught Onne on the road-trip down to Lake Nyasa. As anticipated, we ran into some “police” on the road who were looking for bribes. One of them started asking us all kinds of questions, and inspecting everything on the car. He finally decided that because the windshield was a little bit cracked, he would fine us 20,000 TSH (about $20). We were stewing with anger in the car as Onne went to negotiate and presumably to pay the fine. But as he came back we saw him and the cop smiling, shaking hands and exchanging phone numbers. After the cop questioned us a bit more (Where are you from, how old are you, etc.), he merrily told us to go on our way. We didn’t pay at all. It turned out that he had told Onne that he wanted to seduce one of his mzungu passengers. Onne had said it would be ok for him to try to seduce my sister, except that our mother was in the car. They decided to exchange phone numbers so that the policeman could talk to her later on when she wasn’t with her mother. That night, Onne dutifully called the guy and had my sister talk to him. “I love you! What is your name? When are you returning to Iringa?” were among the only things she could understand from the garbled monologue. All we could hear was her yelling “I can’t understand you. I’m married!” They were cut off when the policeman ran out of money on his phone, and the blossoming romance was no more. It seemed we got off easy, so we congratulated Onne, telling him that his mother must have drowned the dumb ones.
Tanzania is a Peace Country
By the stash of eggs we had acquired by the time we left my village, it was clear that my mom and sister were very welcome guests. We had received a total of 50 eggs from various people. The last night in my village, 15 people showed up to socialize one last time with my guests. Some decided to leave because I didn’t have anything for them to sit on except for buckets.
My mom and sister got to meet all the characters in the village. My neighbor told me my sister and I didn’t look alike—she was pretty. She also said I looked older, because Kerry has a “babyface.” Another lady told her 2-year-old that we had candy in our bras, and to go and get it. She is always making fun of how we wazungu are so ashamed of our breasts, while African mamas will whip them out shamelessly to feed their babies. Another time we made pizza on the charcoal stove, and gave some to a farmer that I often work with. He said he loved it, it was so great he just had to start making it himself. Except that instead of bread, he’d use eggs, and instead of having beer with it, he’d have ugali. Hmmm.
We had the most delicious ugali and greens I’ve ever tasted at my friend’s house, and learned about witchcraft and the one-winged bat legend. Another friend honored my relatives by killing a chicken, which we ate with steaming ugali as well. She is a sweet, very motherly woman with two giant scars on her upper chest given to her by a local doctor in an attempt to cure whatever ailed her in her younger years. My mom and sister have an unrealistic impression of Tanzanian food, and a realistically positive impression of its people.
My mom and sister, long time addicts who reportedly turn into werewolves if they don’t get their morning coffee, are used to stumbling to the kitchen in the morning to flip a switch on the coffee-pot, and pouring themselves a steaming cup of the humanizing substance. But they got a chance to see how grueling the process of making their favorite drink can be. We were “helping” to turn fresh beans into a dark roasted powder, but of course we kept being fired from everything we were “helping” with, from whacking the beans in a giant mortar and pestle to stirring the beans and sand in a pot over a charcoal fire to keep them from burning.
People kept asking what my sister does for a living. We’d look at each other nervously, and attempt to explain massage therapy, until the looks of bewilderment turned into relieved recognition and our listeners would exclaim “oh, a doctor!” or “oh a witch doctor!” I tried to encourage the latter understanding, in hopes that we’d have villagers knocking on the door wanting to pay us in cows for my sister to perform a ritual to remove the hexes bestowed on them by dead relatives.
I doubt that my mother really wanted to leave the village where she was constantly being told she was young and vigorous. My sister liked the fact that fatness is revered, and also had fallen in love with some of the children in the village, and was actively trying to bargain with their parents to let her take them home with her. She had also developed an obsession for Tanzanian bugs; even enthralled by the nasty biting ants that often invade your house.
There’s a Dikdik, or… an Elephant?
The first leg of our trip was a bus ride through the more tropical parts of Tanzania, a high-speed safari as we sped through Mikumi National Park and caught glimpses of zebras, baboons, warthogs and elephants. My sister was very impressed with Iringa town, but made the mistake of waving to a little kid from a second story window, flapping her hand in a gesture that in Tanzania means “come here.” It was clear we had to get out of there before we got into any trouble.
No Surprises
I want to end the description of the trip with a happy memory of meeting my mom and sister in the airport for the first time in a year and a half. I hadn’t slept in three nights (too excited) and neither had they (they were on a plane). I was relieved to find they hadn’t undergone any drastic changes like ballooning up 300 pounds, starting dreads, or letting their personal hygiene go in an effort to conserve water. And we had a year and a half to catch up on, so of course it was quite a sweet reunion.
