We have arrived in Kampala. Before we arrived Paul had told me over and over Kampala is a very big and busy city, Moshi is 'Africa lite' compared and you can't really walk to places in Kampala. To say this is a big city that you can't really walk around is true and also feel like it falls short of a very descriptive reality of what it is like.
Here is how I can describe it.
Imagine Lake Victoria, a vast and beautiful body of water. Kampala is the area to the north, the topography is rolling hills, some moderately high, with peeks and valleys between. Color it all with many shades of lush green, wild, farmed, tended to, and some landscaped. Now looking out over from one peek to the next you see a wash of green, with buildings between, running together with a semi sea of rooftops, red with tile or corrugated tin, grey to dusty rust color.
Once you drive among this you see the city is not quite as uniform as it may seem, looking at the buildings more closely there are about a quarter of them in some halted or continued state of building and half of these have a horrifyingly dangerous looking exoskeleton of scaffolding built from, what seems like large sticks, tied with twine (I am sure they are some hardwood that make them stronger than they look or I can tell myself that anyway) going up 4 to 6 stories. Houses are a mix of fancy stucco/cement like buildings fully enclosed with barbed wire topped walls, moderate brick structures (not enclosed), smaller rectangular dwellings of cement, very small clusters of (what an American would picture as) shacks the size of garden sheds made from an assortment of materials- some are planks of wood with various sized gaps between. Keep in mind that not all of these dwelling have electricity, running water or toilets. Also keep in mind that some people in this city still walk for water, some from a tap some from an open pipe running free.
Lining the streets are modern strip malls some sporting chain names foreigners would recognize, or low buildings with a jumble of hand painted signs crowded along the tops advertising a range of amusing names. There are banks, museums, universities, movie theaters, industrial sections of whole parking lots of tractors, dump trucks or lumber yards (these vary from milled wood stacked and covered to other areas with rough hard wood trees limbed and sorted by size and held upright between branches of larger trees). Shipping containers that have been cleverly transformed into businesses some full size, some cut into half. Small single shacks of wood or cut and flattened oil barrels are here and there, some the size of a phone booth, some 2 - 4 times the size, selling various things. Add restaurants, some small with someone cooking over a charcoal stove others with table and chairs, some with pool tables outside, some fancy and more high end.
To this keep adding open areas of differing sizes of farms (coffee, banana, fruits) land, green areas along the road are turned into a nursery, selling plants in plastic bags not pots, areas where people are hand mixing and forming cement bricks or maybe the red dirt earth bricks. The dirt bricks are then stacked in piles (some quite high) and set with fire under to harden them. There are also rock quarries with flagstone type rocks stacked up or places where people are breaking rock by sledge hammer into smaller and smaller units. Place some cows and goats out grazing, ducks and chicks are free, we even saw a troop of monkeys, there also seems to be a shockingly diverse number of birds some I've never seen. Many are the large (HUGE) garbage eating storks that clack and fly noisily sometimes near your head (I was told they eat 20% of Kampala's garbage a day). Drop in a few big open area parks. Carve in some roads, some wide paved, some dirt and bumpy. Put in some small streams that cut through the landscape and of these some run free, some are stagnant and green, some are choked with garbage, along some water ways are people washing clothes others are 'stands' where people are washing motorcycles- soap, dirt and oil running onto the ground to make a packed black area. There are several large markets stretching out for blocks with plastic covers to protect from the sun and plastic bags to keep food off the ground. All fruits and vegetables adding colors, stacked in their neat pre-measured piles for sale, also dusty graying bags of charcoal.
These are all in a quick rapid succession of each other and the small stores selling drinks, bread and what not are next to sim cards stands, motor repair shops, small butcher stands with open doors and someone resting behind hanging cuts of meat or legs, organs hanging or the intestine draped over the counter hanging like folds of a curtain (I wonder if this prolonged dry aging is what makes beef more tender here and I remember the stories my father told me of the fly covered meat sitting out in the Ethiopian heat when he lived there, before I was ever born. He said the extreme spiciness they used must have been to cover the rancidity). Many of these little shops have neighbors two doors down that seem just exactly the same to themselves, I don't understand how they keep in business.
To all of the above assign a color and make drops over the lush ground then stir them so there are some colors more congratulated than others and yet they are all very much mixed together. We are still not quite done. For each road place people walking along the edge (some have sidewalks, some not), place drivers in cars, delivery trucks, taxis (which are what we thought of as dala-dalas in Tanzania, here the mini buses stuffed with people are taxis), private cars (what you'd think of as a taxi), a million bota-botas (motorcycle taxis which can sometimes have up to 5 people, young babies and children perched on the end or tucked between adults) and bikes all weaving in and out of each other in some rhythm that I do not understand. If you ride in the front seat of a car it's best to just disassociate or hold your observations lightly, just choosing to see what passes by rather than the way your life could pass before your eyes in a crash.
Of course you might be imagining a scratch on the surface of what it is like here. I didn't describe the sounds (including call to prayer which seems later than Tanzania, I used to know the time of day based on it), the smells and the temperature.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Monday, October 7, 2013
Hadzabe Bushmen
I learned about some bushmen, the Hadzabe, who live about 5 hours from where we were in Moshi. I arranged for an overnight tour to see them. They hunt only with bows and arrows and the women then gather supplemental things depending on the seasons. They speak with clicking sounds mid and between words. We had to do an overnight tour because they leave to go hunting about 6:30 in the morning. The night before we meet our guide for the next day, Benga, who was from a near by tribe, the Datgoga. He spoke some, self taught, English (like my Swahili he had a script of English, ask or replay too far off that and he didn't know what you were saying), Datgoga, Hadzabe, Swahili, and another local tribe's language. I asked the boys to describe the two days, I added details that are in italics the rest is them tandem talking.
We went on a bushmen tour and the bushmen speak in clicks, not entirely clicks just clicks every now and then. On the way there was a very dusty and long road that took 5 hours. The last hour to the campground was on a very dusty silty road. The dirt is a volcanic red. A lesser skilled driver would have fishtailed the entire way or slid off the road entirely. Dust billowed up from our tires and I asked about the wet season which seemed would make the road almost impassable. Victor said the only problem was the big onion trucks that could get stick, spinning out and making deep ruts. You could get stuck behind them on the narrow roads until a tractor would come and pull them out. You could be stuck an hour or a day you'd never know. On the way home we stopped to use a restroom and I saw I had a raccoon mask of white around my eyes from where my sunglasses were and a dust line to lighter brown on the rest of my face. Then we reached the 'campground. that was in the middle of nowhere, the staff lived there. It had showers that were really easy to see into from the outside, because the (shower) building was made of planks of wood with varying spaces between them.
That evening we drove to a partly dried up saline lake and got to walk on salt crispies and the mud underneath smelled bad. There were dried up dead fishies about one inch long, and in bigger cases one and a half all over, the dry lake bed. 'Mostly they were in footprints and had hoped to live in the small pool of water that had been there but they died anyway'. Meaning you could see water had pooled in footprints and the fish had found them and were dried up in dense clusters within them. We saw dried hippo footprints that were a little big bigger than the size of a basketball, lots of pelican prints, human prints (bare feet), hyena, and bush pig prints.
We went on a bushmen tour and the bushmen speak in clicks, not entirely clicks just clicks every now and then. On the way there was a very dusty and long road that took 5 hours. The last hour to the campground was on a very dusty silty road. The dirt is a volcanic red. A lesser skilled driver would have fishtailed the entire way or slid off the road entirely. Dust billowed up from our tires and I asked about the wet season which seemed would make the road almost impassable. Victor said the only problem was the big onion trucks that could get stick, spinning out and making deep ruts. You could get stuck behind them on the narrow roads until a tractor would come and pull them out. You could be stuck an hour or a day you'd never know. On the way home we stopped to use a restroom and I saw I had a raccoon mask of white around my eyes from where my sunglasses were and a dust line to lighter brown on the rest of my face. Then we reached the 'campground. that was in the middle of nowhere, the staff lived there. It had showers that were really easy to see into from the outside, because the (shower) building was made of planks of wood with varying spaces between them.
That evening we drove to a partly dried up saline lake and got to walk on salt crispies and the mud underneath smelled bad. There were dried up dead fishies about one inch long, and in bigger cases one and a half all over, the dry lake bed. 'Mostly they were in footprints and had hoped to live in the small pool of water that had been there but they died anyway'. Meaning you could see water had pooled in footprints and the fish had found them and were dried up in dense clusters within them. We saw dried hippo footprints that were a little big bigger than the size of a basketball, lots of pelican prints, human prints (bare feet), hyena, and bush pig prints.
We slept in a small tent and woke up at 4:45 am and drank some hot chocolate and in mom's case, coffee (instant coffee and powdered milk in plastic cups with hot water). We also ate yummy biscuits, (they were totally gross, but it was all there was until we returned to eat and we didn't' know when that would be). It was dark when we left camp and it was light when we arrived at the Hadzabe camp. On the way there we passed through a lot of dried river beds. We drove through the grey light of pre-dawn. Along the way shadows would come into focus as single or multiple donkeys (or an occasional cart) laden with chuffed up yellow water containers to haul water for the day. Slowly color bled into chalky white landscape as we lost our night color blindness and the landscape became green and brown.
When the driver said we 'we're here' we thought we had to walk a little bit to get to the camp but when we walked forward and realized the rings of branches bunched around trees were actually houses, that had no roof and skins strewed across the dirt for a bed. There were 2 (small) fire with people around them, men at one and women at another. The men smoke A LOT 'that is probably why they coughed so much'. The men wore shorts and each had skin tied at their shoulder. The women wore kangas tied as skirts and another kanga wrapped around their shoulders. There were 4 super duper cute puppies, and the adults had big clumps of missing fur from scars. They adults were really skinny because they only got the parts people don't want to eat.
They had assortment of bows and arrows that were decorated with fur and markings that showed what arrows went to which bows. We (O and L) were given bows and arrows we all went out to hunt with them. Some of the bow stings were made of twisted tendons and such from animals. We shot but we missed every time and constantly lost our arrows in the trees. If it's stuck in the tree you are expected to climb up and get it, the bushmen got them out in about 5 minutes. Keep in mind almost every tree and bush had self defense in the form of sharp thorns of some kind. The bushmen hit almost every time they shot. They were hunting birds, squirrels and mice. They got really excited about the squirrels, all 4 of them hunted for about 30 minutes and didn't get them.
Mid hunt they made a fire in about 2 seconds with dried feces and sticks. They roasted and ate 3 birds, the birds were about the half the size of a baseball. We (O and L) didn't eat them, mom tried it. The boys were off trying to catch something and they did offer me some, I thought NO WAY am I going to eat one bit of that minuscule amount of meat the 4 of them are sharing for breakfast! Then Benga took some and I asked him what it was like and he tore me off a small piece. It was smoky and quickly dry in my mouth. The meat turned pasty, leaving a lingering and building taste of smoke and grit. Almost like guilt for how easy I can obtain food and water. They shaved off the beak with a knife and ate the head, whole brains and all. We saw how little they were eating and (desperately) wanted to shoot them a bird. We kept hunting, they shot a total of 7 birds and 3 field mice (bigger than a house mouse). The skeletal thin dogs got the bones and scraps, in this case, legs, feet and innards. I told Benga in the states people buy their dogs pre-made dog food and he was surprised and asked how much it cost. I instantly regretted even bringing it up and felt embarrassed and lied a low price, yet still high for them. We stopped at a murky pool the size of a twin bed and one squatted down and filled his hand to drink and the other man squatted down and put his lips to the water and drank the murky muddy water. The dog drank from a make shift trough cut out of a log. This water hole was used by more local people than just the Bushmen and had a 'fence' of brush around it, presumably to keep livestock from destroying it. Sometimes at night some of the men from the tribe will wait to hunt bigger game that come to drink.
When we returned to camp we had target practice and shot at a stump that was covered in holes and pretty hard to hit. We drove back to our camp and got a gigantic brunch and felt very guilty because we ate a lot and couldn't finish all that was fixed for us and they got so little and finished every scrap. It was about 11 before we ate. We were thirsty, hot, and hungry when we got back but we all had, I think, silently agreed if they can live that way we can deal with hunger, heat and thirst for a while without complaining, which yet again I was so proud of them for not a peep of a complaint. If one modern American gave everything he owned to a bushmen, a bushmen would have the equivalent of way more than 10 bushmen villages (I am sure it's more than that since they don't have much that can be measured in terms of monetary value). Americans are spoiled. Bushmen wouldn't want to live as an American because they aren't used to rules. Their only rules might be don't go out at night. The guide told us the chief knows a medicine to burn in fires to keep wild animals away.
When the driver said we 'we're here' we thought we had to walk a little bit to get to the camp but when we walked forward and realized the rings of branches bunched around trees were actually houses, that had no roof and skins strewed across the dirt for a bed. There were 2 (small) fire with people around them, men at one and women at another. The men smoke A LOT 'that is probably why they coughed so much'. The men wore shorts and each had skin tied at their shoulder. The women wore kangas tied as skirts and another kanga wrapped around their shoulders. There were 4 super duper cute puppies, and the adults had big clumps of missing fur from scars. They adults were really skinny because they only got the parts people don't want to eat.
They had assortment of bows and arrows that were decorated with fur and markings that showed what arrows went to which bows. We (O and L) were given bows and arrows we all went out to hunt with them. Some of the bow stings were made of twisted tendons and such from animals. We shot but we missed every time and constantly lost our arrows in the trees. If it's stuck in the tree you are expected to climb up and get it, the bushmen got them out in about 5 minutes. Keep in mind almost every tree and bush had self defense in the form of sharp thorns of some kind. The bushmen hit almost every time they shot. They were hunting birds, squirrels and mice. They got really excited about the squirrels, all 4 of them hunted for about 30 minutes and didn't get them.
Mid hunt they made a fire in about 2 seconds with dried feces and sticks. They roasted and ate 3 birds, the birds were about the half the size of a baseball. We (O and L) didn't eat them, mom tried it. The boys were off trying to catch something and they did offer me some, I thought NO WAY am I going to eat one bit of that minuscule amount of meat the 4 of them are sharing for breakfast! Then Benga took some and I asked him what it was like and he tore me off a small piece. It was smoky and quickly dry in my mouth. The meat turned pasty, leaving a lingering and building taste of smoke and grit. Almost like guilt for how easy I can obtain food and water. They shaved off the beak with a knife and ate the head, whole brains and all. We saw how little they were eating and (desperately) wanted to shoot them a bird. We kept hunting, they shot a total of 7 birds and 3 field mice (bigger than a house mouse). The skeletal thin dogs got the bones and scraps, in this case, legs, feet and innards. I told Benga in the states people buy their dogs pre-made dog food and he was surprised and asked how much it cost. I instantly regretted even bringing it up and felt embarrassed and lied a low price, yet still high for them. We stopped at a murky pool the size of a twin bed and one squatted down and filled his hand to drink and the other man squatted down and put his lips to the water and drank the murky muddy water. The dog drank from a make shift trough cut out of a log. This water hole was used by more local people than just the Bushmen and had a 'fence' of brush around it, presumably to keep livestock from destroying it. Sometimes at night some of the men from the tribe will wait to hunt bigger game that come to drink.
When we returned to camp we had target practice and shot at a stump that was covered in holes and pretty hard to hit. We drove back to our camp and got a gigantic brunch and felt very guilty because we ate a lot and couldn't finish all that was fixed for us and they got so little and finished every scrap. It was about 11 before we ate. We were thirsty, hot, and hungry when we got back but we all had, I think, silently agreed if they can live that way we can deal with hunger, heat and thirst for a while without complaining, which yet again I was so proud of them for not a peep of a complaint. If one modern American gave everything he owned to a bushmen, a bushmen would have the equivalent of way more than 10 bushmen villages (I am sure it's more than that since they don't have much that can be measured in terms of monetary value). Americans are spoiled. Bushmen wouldn't want to live as an American because they aren't used to rules. Their only rules might be don't go out at night. The guide told us the chief knows a medicine to burn in fires to keep wild animals away.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Octopuses in Paradise
We are now at Paul's mid-break time. We had a sad (tearful for me, and Grace) goodbye in Moshi and have arrived in Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania. We are staying along a rural stretch of the mid-east coastline and I GET THE HYPE about Zanibar now. It is nearly impossible to feel that there is anything amiss in the world when you are here. The beach is a blindly white, soft, smooth confection like creation of fine coral, the Indian Ocean is like a tepid bath, the warmest water the kids and I have ever been in (Paul already was in the Indian Ocean for his post rural party weekend). The kids were in the water as soon as we finished eating our late lunch yesterday and in all day today as well. There were only a total of 6 other tourists in sight this whole time and it turns out we know two of them. Yesterday the eldest repeatedly said this is truly paradise. We had planned on spending 2 nights in Stone Town (think big ornate doors with metal fittings and crumbling buildings, old Person bathhouses and Indian Jones movies) but we love it here so much we decided to stay one extra night here and one less in Stone Town.
After breakfast we all walked out to a sand bar/reef area about a quarter of a mile off shore. In order to get there we made our way out between the colorfully (fully) clad women harvesting and tending to their seaweed farms all the while treading carefully among the countless urchins carpeting the low recessed rocks (or more accurately worn down coral). The seaweed they harvest is one that looks like a semi firm/gelatinous tree coral. Apparently it is dried and processed into a stabilizer (like agar) for cosmetics etc (this along with tourism and spices is the main economic source), here and there were bursts of living coral making me wish over and over for a mask just to get a clear peak at them. I have limited Swahili and it's also situational. We learned how to get by in town, at shops, restaurants, swimming pools and the like. I am completely lost when the women here do more than greet us as we wade by. I am not sure if they are saying 'hey asshole get out of my area of seaweed farm!' or 'don't go out to the reef there is a rain storm blowing in' (there was) or 'how lovely to see a family' or 'watch out for the urchins'. We did have an interesting conversation with a former Dutch man here who runs a seaweed farm here and on another island. He and a partner originally set the ones they run up as a way for women to be able to earn more money and then be more empowered. There are studies that have shown if women are able to earn more the rate of domestic abuse goes down, it is interesting how one conscientious business model can have rippling effects, just as an amoral business model can devastate an area.
Naturally we were delighted to be out at the sandy 'reef' area. I say 'reef' because it was very low laying old coral that was covered with seaweed and little bits of sea life. Exploring coastal tidal areas in any sea is just about my favorite thing to do and the 4 of us all enjoy it. There were a few fishermen (for lack of a better term) walking about with sticks. Some had bags and I began to feel suspicious that they might be looking for octopus. One man walked by us with dingy white pants, the front pocket areas were all grey/black (I thought he might handle a lot of charcoal and wipe his hands on his pants?) he had a bit of banana fiber tied around his chest and his shirt had a knot in the middle. This knot must have been to hold his shirt tight so it wouldn't flap ceaselessly in the breeze. It was a little unclear to me what he'd be hunting? fishing? for. He had one long stick and two or three short ones, he would be quickly poking them at a spot them moving on like an anteater. I kept him in sight for any exciting harvest and wasn't disappointed! Paul (he was the one to say I think he is looking for octopus) saw he had one and I sprinted the 20 yards over. He had one and let me hold the stunned mollusk, by the siphon. He was beautiful and I felt bad for him but that is the way it goes. He was creamy with yellows and blues and darling eyes, much smaller than our Giant Pacific. He then took him and quickly stuffed him in his front pockets, solving the question of the black stains: ink! Later on shore I found out that (and saw) people take and pound them in the sand to tenderize. I tried to get one guy to give me beak and either he didn't understand at all or he truly did toss it away so no beak. Maybe another time.
I have also realized that no matter what you think a little shower water gets in your mouth. I thought I did a good job not getting it in my mouth but the shower and tap water here is brackish and I taste the salt when I shower so I am obviously not doing a good job. The fun things you think about when your partner and his entire social circle are studying tropical disease is how many things you can get walking bare foot in the sand (I am anyway) and how very very small some cysts and eggs are that you can get via water and how you only need 1 to be infected.
After breakfast we all walked out to a sand bar/reef area about a quarter of a mile off shore. In order to get there we made our way out between the colorfully (fully) clad women harvesting and tending to their seaweed farms all the while treading carefully among the countless urchins carpeting the low recessed rocks (or more accurately worn down coral). The seaweed they harvest is one that looks like a semi firm/gelatinous tree coral. Apparently it is dried and processed into a stabilizer (like agar) for cosmetics etc (this along with tourism and spices is the main economic source), here and there were bursts of living coral making me wish over and over for a mask just to get a clear peak at them. I have limited Swahili and it's also situational. We learned how to get by in town, at shops, restaurants, swimming pools and the like. I am completely lost when the women here do more than greet us as we wade by. I am not sure if they are saying 'hey asshole get out of my area of seaweed farm!' or 'don't go out to the reef there is a rain storm blowing in' (there was) or 'how lovely to see a family' or 'watch out for the urchins'. We did have an interesting conversation with a former Dutch man here who runs a seaweed farm here and on another island. He and a partner originally set the ones they run up as a way for women to be able to earn more money and then be more empowered. There are studies that have shown if women are able to earn more the rate of domestic abuse goes down, it is interesting how one conscientious business model can have rippling effects, just as an amoral business model can devastate an area.
Naturally we were delighted to be out at the sandy 'reef' area. I say 'reef' because it was very low laying old coral that was covered with seaweed and little bits of sea life. Exploring coastal tidal areas in any sea is just about my favorite thing to do and the 4 of us all enjoy it. There were a few fishermen (for lack of a better term) walking about with sticks. Some had bags and I began to feel suspicious that they might be looking for octopus. One man walked by us with dingy white pants, the front pocket areas were all grey/black (I thought he might handle a lot of charcoal and wipe his hands on his pants?) he had a bit of banana fiber tied around his chest and his shirt had a knot in the middle. This knot must have been to hold his shirt tight so it wouldn't flap ceaselessly in the breeze. It was a little unclear to me what he'd be hunting? fishing? for. He had one long stick and two or three short ones, he would be quickly poking them at a spot them moving on like an anteater. I kept him in sight for any exciting harvest and wasn't disappointed! Paul (he was the one to say I think he is looking for octopus) saw he had one and I sprinted the 20 yards over. He had one and let me hold the stunned mollusk, by the siphon. He was beautiful and I felt bad for him but that is the way it goes. He was creamy with yellows and blues and darling eyes, much smaller than our Giant Pacific. He then took him and quickly stuffed him in his front pockets, solving the question of the black stains: ink! Later on shore I found out that (and saw) people take and pound them in the sand to tenderize. I tried to get one guy to give me beak and either he didn't understand at all or he truly did toss it away so no beak. Maybe another time.
I have also realized that no matter what you think a little shower water gets in your mouth. I thought I did a good job not getting it in my mouth but the shower and tap water here is brackish and I taste the salt when I shower so I am obviously not doing a good job. The fun things you think about when your partner and his entire social circle are studying tropical disease is how many things you can get walking bare foot in the sand (I am anyway) and how very very small some cysts and eggs are that you can get via water and how you only need 1 to be infected.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Mother Africa and dicipline
Some of Paul's classmates have arranged a Yoga night for a few weeks (it's been lovely). The first one I went to was at the house of the tutors (what they call the teachers for the course). They have a large yard with 'grass', hard pack dirt with some green weeds and grass growing sparsely. We all just stood, sat and laid in the dirt for Yoga. Side note this week happened to be the week on parasites and the parsasitologists took a picture, and put it in the lecture, of everyone (unknowing to most) and I had a exposed legs and was singled out at the one most likely to get 'things' (infections) from the dirt. One of boys was at the lecture the day they showed it and was so delighted to retell me that story. Back to the point... At the end we did a meditation while in shavasana and I felt the hard earth beneath me. It was firm and my body continued to settle down into it as well as it felt the earth was reaching up to support me.
I began to think, laying in that dirt, I am really in Africa. I am laying in the dirt in Africa. My body is being supported directly by the dirt and earth in Africa. I think of Africa as the cradle of humanity where the divine force of God began the evolution of man and the slow diversification towards what we have become. I felt that mother Africa, the cradle of humanity and it feels like she is a supportive mother but she is not coddling. She has in some ways turned her back on her people, letting them go make their way as they should not being pampered and they have a hard life here. They are all so strong and beautiful. No one here slouches, they all walk erect and perfect, it seems like everyone has the most beautiful skin, even when scared.
We were just in a remote area where the dirt is a red volcanic soil, rich and now it is the dry season. The river beds are sandy and dry. The people walk so far for water and I watched as two men bent town and drank from a muddy puddle after spending half of there 3 hours of hunting to catch a few song birds and 2 mice for the small village to eat. People pound grain by hand. They toil here. Maybe it feels different in the wet season but I still think they toil.
I talked the other day with Grace and Ben about parents and discipline of children. Here if you don't behave you get the stick. You get whacked with a stick and it can be harder or more than once or in more than once part of the body. Is this practical because there are still areas where if you don't hop to it RIGHT NOW and do as your parents say you can die? Is it practical because there are plants that the sap could kill or blind you? I see some complexities that make sense about it that I can not try to formulate or if I did no one would care to read the long paragraphs resulting.
Here is what I will say. They were so shocked when I said if you hit your child with a stick, punched them or hit them hard enough they'd fall down, bit, pinched or hit them hard enough to break skin or leave marks you could go to jail in the US. They just were shocked. Then they asked how do you discipline? This was after quite a long talk and so I actually found myself laughing at how absurd it must have sounded as it came from my mouth and felt slightly embarrassed to admit the general things I know people do- which is not to say I am going to start striking my children. I told them people put their kids in time out, talk to them, ground them, take privileges away or may spank them. Grace said but if you took somethings away then you give it back? I wish I could show her exact expression and posture. She then sat with her head cocked looking up to the right with her eyes rolled up and a peevish look on her face and she shrugged her right shoulder and tipped her head down in a classic well you can try look and said 'hummp- I thinking I will get it back and I can do it again if I want'.
I began to think, laying in that dirt, I am really in Africa. I am laying in the dirt in Africa. My body is being supported directly by the dirt and earth in Africa. I think of Africa as the cradle of humanity where the divine force of God began the evolution of man and the slow diversification towards what we have become. I felt that mother Africa, the cradle of humanity and it feels like she is a supportive mother but she is not coddling. She has in some ways turned her back on her people, letting them go make their way as they should not being pampered and they have a hard life here. They are all so strong and beautiful. No one here slouches, they all walk erect and perfect, it seems like everyone has the most beautiful skin, even when scared.
We were just in a remote area where the dirt is a red volcanic soil, rich and now it is the dry season. The river beds are sandy and dry. The people walk so far for water and I watched as two men bent town and drank from a muddy puddle after spending half of there 3 hours of hunting to catch a few song birds and 2 mice for the small village to eat. People pound grain by hand. They toil here. Maybe it feels different in the wet season but I still think they toil.
I talked the other day with Grace and Ben about parents and discipline of children. Here if you don't behave you get the stick. You get whacked with a stick and it can be harder or more than once or in more than once part of the body. Is this practical because there are still areas where if you don't hop to it RIGHT NOW and do as your parents say you can die? Is it practical because there are plants that the sap could kill or blind you? I see some complexities that make sense about it that I can not try to formulate or if I did no one would care to read the long paragraphs resulting.
Here is what I will say. They were so shocked when I said if you hit your child with a stick, punched them or hit them hard enough they'd fall down, bit, pinched or hit them hard enough to break skin or leave marks you could go to jail in the US. They just were shocked. Then they asked how do you discipline? This was after quite a long talk and so I actually found myself laughing at how absurd it must have sounded as it came from my mouth and felt slightly embarrassed to admit the general things I know people do- which is not to say I am going to start striking my children. I told them people put their kids in time out, talk to them, ground them, take privileges away or may spank them. Grace said but if you took somethings away then you give it back? I wish I could show her exact expression and posture. She then sat with her head cocked looking up to the right with her eyes rolled up and a peevish look on her face and she shrugged her right shoulder and tipped her head down in a classic well you can try look and said 'hummp- I thinking I will get it back and I can do it again if I want'.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
A couple of good quotes.
I think I posted this quote before but I am going to post it again. It was graffiti on the wall along a canal in Belgium:
"Death is not the greatest loss in life.The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live" -Norman Cousins
This internal death is what happens when we are too afraid to make change and try new things. This might be one of the biggest lessons Paul has taught me. I remember when I was just 19 and we started dating and we were talking about desires for the future. I have had tendency towards paralysis rather than action when uncertain, lacking confidence to just push forward in a direction even if that direction isn't 100% what I think I want to do. He said it's better to reach the end of life and look back at all the things you have tired even if you never found your hearts calling rather than to reach the end of life and have done nothing or one thing you didn't like. That understanding is a gift to freedom. I think of how much being with someone who has such an ability for future planning has created for me and the boys, and what it means to be here now.
I can't believe we have been here 5 weeks. We will be leaving Moshi in a week. It will be Paul's half term (something like that they call it) break, between Tanzania and Uganda. We will spend a week 'vacationing' here in Tanzania before we move up to Uganda. I will miss so much Grace, the woman working here where we are staying. She has been so kind so much a source of pleasant surprises. I will miss our Swahili teacher, Sia. Such a woman who is kind, firm and so strong. I will miss too Ben, the gardener here who is quiet and will find a stick to lightly scratch Swahili words into his arm to show me how they are written. I will miss more than that but those three come to mind. Each day there are new things to tuck into my heart. Last week I found a group of deaf people who have a sewing collective and I signed to them (they use the same alphabet as us) in Swahili. They were so delighted to have a tourist try talk to them. When I was leaving one man was almost going to cry with gratitude, I felt the same way, another thing to tuck away.
Another guest was reading a book left here, Scribbling the Cat, and she read to me this passage and I had to take it down too. I feel so grateful we aren't just returning straight from Africa home. We will have some other stops along the way. I have a new appreciation for our friends whom have lived here returning home. This quote seems to sum it up well:
In late December I went home to my husband and to my children and to the post-Christmas chaos of a resort town, but instead of feeling glad to be back, I was dislocated and depressed. It should not be physically possible to get from the banks of the Pepani River to Wyoming in less than two days, because mentally and emotionally it is impossible. The shock is too much, the contrast too raw. We should sail or swim or walk from Africa, letting bits of her drop out of us, and gradually, in this way, assimilate the accesses and liberties of the States in tiny, incremental sips, maybe touring up through South America and Mexico before trying to stomach the land of the Free and the Brave. (page 72)
Scribbling the cat by Alexandra Fuller
"Death is not the greatest loss in life.The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live" -Norman Cousins
I can't believe we have been here 5 weeks. We will be leaving Moshi in a week. It will be Paul's half term (something like that they call it) break, between Tanzania and Uganda. We will spend a week 'vacationing' here in Tanzania before we move up to Uganda. I will miss so much Grace, the woman working here where we are staying. She has been so kind so much a source of pleasant surprises. I will miss our Swahili teacher, Sia. Such a woman who is kind, firm and so strong. I will miss too Ben, the gardener here who is quiet and will find a stick to lightly scratch Swahili words into his arm to show me how they are written. I will miss more than that but those three come to mind. Each day there are new things to tuck into my heart. Last week I found a group of deaf people who have a sewing collective and I signed to them (they use the same alphabet as us) in Swahili. They were so delighted to have a tourist try talk to them. When I was leaving one man was almost going to cry with gratitude, I felt the same way, another thing to tuck away.
Another guest was reading a book left here, Scribbling the Cat, and she read to me this passage and I had to take it down too. I feel so grateful we aren't just returning straight from Africa home. We will have some other stops along the way. I have a new appreciation for our friends whom have lived here returning home. This quote seems to sum it up well:
In late December I went home to my husband and to my children and to the post-Christmas chaos of a resort town, but instead of feeling glad to be back, I was dislocated and depressed. It should not be physically possible to get from the banks of the Pepani River to Wyoming in less than two days, because mentally and emotionally it is impossible. The shock is too much, the contrast too raw. We should sail or swim or walk from Africa, letting bits of her drop out of us, and gradually, in this way, assimilate the accesses and liberties of the States in tiny, incremental sips, maybe touring up through South America and Mexico before trying to stomach the land of the Free and the Brave. (page 72)
Scribbling the cat by Alexandra Fuller
Monday, September 23, 2013
Traditional Wedding celebration
Here in Tanzania there are supposed to be 120 different tribes. Many of these tribes had chefs and kings. Now the tribes are under the Tanzanian government but there are still Kings and Kingships that are recognized by those tribes as per tradition. One of Paul's classmates if the king of one of the larger (6,000) local tribes and they have become friends. Last Saturday he invited us to attend part of a traditional wedding celebration for his sister in law.
Paul and his classmates had a half day of review for the parasite test. The boys and I had signed up for a cooking class. It was really really fun and the kids really enjoyed it too. We made samosas (sadly samosas are extremely labor intensive and take about 3 hours to prepare and they are so delicious that you can eat an entire batch in minutes. A nice eye opener for the kids and they were so proud of them they saved one for Paul and one for Grace- so cute), a very common local tasty salad, Ugali (what I have written about before, the maize cooked THICK eaten with fingers and used as a vehicle for other foods), and cooked greens and meat to go with the Uglai. I bring this up because we thought we'd missed our chance to go with Paul to the wedding (long story) and when finished the class and ate our fill of food.
Paul contacted us just as we arrived back home and said take a taxi and come out, have Kelvin (the taxi driver we use a lot) call this number and get directions. So, we excitedly, and hurriedly, changed into our nicest outfits and had Kelvin get directions. He had no idea where the specific place we were going was and he doesn't speak a lot of English and I try to jabber away at him and pretty much every taxi ride he laughs a little and tells me 'umm. I don't understand' and turns his head away as if wishing by not looking I'd quit. So now we are driving and it's becoming more and more lush and like the country side and we are more and more off the main road and banana trees shading coffee trees are all you and see. It's quite pretty, the road is more and more bumpy. He keeps stopping to ask where this place is and people answer with various degrees of confidence and length of speech. Each time 'I say what did they say?' He would then answer 'this way'. I keep offering my phone for him to call the mystery person to guide him in, all the time wondering if Tanzanian men have the same stereotype as men in the states asking for directions, I feel grateful that it's Kelvin we are with not someone I don't know because I feel like he won't leave us in some random place. At one point we are getting very close (but I don't know it) and he picks up a woman who guides us the last of the way. Turns out we have been directed the whole time by the bride's father who meets us at the road and walks us in. He introduces us to the woman who rode with us, who turns out to be his sister. He is a very funny, extremely warm and gracious host.
We walk through the celebration area which is filled with chairs (and many are filled and I see people just watch us walk by) and back through a gate into one of the houses. The chairs are all along the open spot and back 3 deep between the banana trees as well as in the middle of the open area. Once in the house we are offered drinks and told to eat. The kids and I are not really very hungry since we just pigged out on our cooking food (and I found out later the kids were even more full since they had kept sneaking handfuls of the samosa meat mix all during the class because it's aroma was just too good). We are polite and take a little of everything. There are several traditional dishes, one of which has very firm whole green bananas and meat in it and another that has parts of the organs and what not, of cow. I ended up with a, very generous piece of black something. I think stomach or ruminant- I never ended up deciding if it was best to chew it with the smooth thick facial side against my tongue or feeling the geometric pattern of ruminant pressing down, if you ever eat a piece you will have a very long time to decide for yourself as you chew on it. Paul and his friends (the king and one other classmate) were drinking the traditional banana beer from wooden mugs. I was excited to try that having heard about it from another local person. It really does taste of banana and it is like banana and sort of like kombucha mixed. There is a thick chunky like froth on top that you have to blow aside or let just rest against your upper lip and drink the liquid underneath, a skilled drinker must filter it with their lips. It made me think if that is how mead used to be maybe? The kind they talk abut in Pillars of the Earth and the Songs of Ice and Fire books.
The ceremony were able to attend was the groom's family coming to give gifts to the bride's side. We walked back out of the house and sat, at the very last minute, with the king (her father joked that his daughter was so important that even guests flew in from America to attend). They introduced everyone in the different sides of the family and elder members of the community. There is more ceremony and then bride's parents and grandparents are wrapped in blankets and the aunts are wrapped in kangas (the cloth they tie up as skirts and more) this is all happening one individual at a time. At any point a family member can refuse these things and the proceeding has to start over or they can say it's too cheap and you have to give them a little money too. The bride then pretends she doesn't want to come out and they have to bribe her and she puts on a show, then she has to go around the crowd and find her groom who is 'hidden'. He will then ask her, in front of the whole tribe, to marry him. All of this is done in good fun drama and her father was the MC (I am sure that isn't what he is called though) and I could tell, even though it was all in Swahili, that he is a very charismatic and funny man. Around this time some men come hefting out two big plastic open barrels of traditional banana beer. People in the Scio area will know these types of barrels as the kind the local farmers ferment hog feed in. The barrels sat quietly and bubbled the top froth over the sides. The bride then uses guards on handles and drinks a little herself before giving some to her husband then to his family, the elders and so forth. Eventually this drink is poured into small clean buckets and passed then large plastic cups. After that we all ate again! We were sooo full. After eating there are traditional dances where the women invite the men's family in and so forth.
The boys sat very well through all this. L had a small pad of paper and was drawing various things after we had finished eating. This was very interesting to the local children who began to gather around. I gave one of the sheets of paper to O to fold into origami, I told him do the balloon, the kids eyes got so wide when they saw a flat piece of folded paper get blown up into a cube. That sealed the deal and the mass of children grew and O kept folding. They all wanted one. They were also taking L's drawings but I discovered it was to just run them around to O to fold up! L and one of Paul's friend's each took turns drawing the parasites they'd been looking at under the microscope. I had Paul's classmate label them in Swahili but I kept that one! By the time it was suggested we could sit and visit in the house there was a crush of kids about 3 deep around them.
The boys both knew the two of Paul's classmates from their time at school in lecture and they seemed at home chatting and joking with them. Later in the night Paul's friend, the another classmate, his father and brother in law give us a ride back to town. It was so incredible to be included in the event and they were all so very sweet and generous. We felt really special to be included. After we arrived home Grace told me she had set out some of her dinner for me to try. So I ate another helping of food, this time it wasn't a full serving at least!
Tonight I tried to tell the night guard I want to run tomorrow so I will need the gate unlocked at 6 am. This Massai man doesn't speak English. I told him what time, in Swahili. Then Grace said I had to go tell him in Swahili but in Swahili time as well, so I did. But that ended up confusing things because he had a cell phone and he showed it to us then she asked me 'is it English time?', I think because she uses the 24 hour clock. In the end the three of us worked it out, and he tells me I will not need to find and wake him up like the other morning (this is all Grace translating of course). By now I know where all the keys are to the pad locks and doors so I can let myself out of the actual B&B (and Grace sleeps in another building out back) but not to the gate to get OUT onto the street (no, dirt road really). The other morning I knew my cab was waiting but there was no way out until I got the guard up and it took some doing, who technically wasn't supposed to be tucked away sleeping. When I signed/English/Swahili-ed my explanation about the guard sleeping and me trying to wake him for so long, Kelvin the cab driver, just laughed.
The boys both knew the two of Paul's classmates from their time at school in lecture and they seemed at home chatting and joking with them. Later in the night Paul's friend, the another classmate, his father and brother in law give us a ride back to town. It was so incredible to be included in the event and they were all so very sweet and generous. We felt really special to be included. After we arrived home Grace told me she had set out some of her dinner for me to try. So I ate another helping of food, this time it wasn't a full serving at least!
Tonight I tried to tell the night guard I want to run tomorrow so I will need the gate unlocked at 6 am. This Massai man doesn't speak English. I told him what time, in Swahili. Then Grace said I had to go tell him in Swahili but in Swahili time as well, so I did. But that ended up confusing things because he had a cell phone and he showed it to us then she asked me 'is it English time?', I think because she uses the 24 hour clock. In the end the three of us worked it out, and he tells me I will not need to find and wake him up like the other morning (this is all Grace translating of course). By now I know where all the keys are to the pad locks and doors so I can let myself out of the actual B&B (and Grace sleeps in another building out back) but not to the gate to get OUT onto the street (no, dirt road really). The other morning I knew my cab was waiting but there was no way out until I got the guard up and it took some doing, who technically wasn't supposed to be tucked away sleeping. When I signed/English/Swahili-ed my explanation about the guard sleeping and me trying to wake him for so long, Kelvin the cab driver, just laughed.
What time is it? Where did that come from?
Understanding what time people mean can sometimes be tricky. Most of the world uses a 24 hour clock and not am or pm. Here add in that with the fact that locals use Swahili time. You start counting at 7 am with the start of the day. 7 am is 1, 8 am is 2, 9 am is 3 etc until 6 which is 12 then you start over. Levin keeps his watch on Pacific time no mater where we are so if you ask him the time he (or you) will add 10 hours (or subtract 2 is easier) and flip the am/pm. Most locals know if they are talking to a muzungo (white person) the time the muzungo gives is not Swahili time but it can cause some confusion. I had a mix up with the taxi driver the first time I asked him to get me at 6 am to go running, we got it figured out. Today I texted with our Swahili teacher about getting a ride from her husband tomorrow and she texted me in Swahili with Swahili time. I had to have the boys verify that I calculated it correctly because of course they understood it the FIRST time she explained it to us. Curious to try your hand? We will be picked up at 3 and return home at 10.
When we were on our way back from the safari I saw some people outside of smaller villages walking with big home sewn sacks full of empty plastic bottles. I asked where are they doing with those bottles? Since there is no 'recycling' in the sense that we think of but there is recycling in that people use and reuse things. Victor told me they collect them, wash them and sell them in town. Then people use them for kerosene, gas, cooking oil, etc. I have seen oil being sold this way at the market (not store but market). Later we were stopped at a tourist shop (perhaps he gets a commission? He said they have nice washrooms) to use the restrooms and stretch and I saw the staff picking bottles out of the garbage as well. The thing is.... I am now less interested in that oil at the market because I find myself over thinking the washing method as well as what might have been in the bottles previously.
I also now understand why all the milk served warm at the local restaurants. Milk here, as well as many places, is sold in the shelf stable boxes and I somehow imagined the restaurants using this. Of course it makes more sense they would not. I saw the daladalas (small buses, like a van but that somehow pack a lot of people in) returning from town with various scratched up (and dirty on the outside) buckets and containers all tried up along the back and top. I asked Victor what they had sold in town in those buckets. He said milk, they go into town and sell it to restaurants and hotels. On one of my morning runs I ran by women in town selling them out of these buckets on the sidewalk and the buckets smelled a little sour. I saw them pouring them into re-used bottles with big funnels. Back at he hotel, where I meet Paul's classmates for the run, I saw their Massai night guard walking a giant plastic bottle back to the kitchen. So now, as I understand it, when I am out and we get milk we are getting that milk and they heat it for safety rather than service. Only now I wonder about the place where the boys and I found thick milkshakes (rather than the one we had early on that was an interesting take on milkshake: frothy milk, as if whisked, and a small scoop of ice cream)..... What are they doing with that milk since it's cold? Sometimes knowing too much isn't helpful.
When we were on our way back from the safari I saw some people outside of smaller villages walking with big home sewn sacks full of empty plastic bottles. I asked where are they doing with those bottles? Since there is no 'recycling' in the sense that we think of but there is recycling in that people use and reuse things. Victor told me they collect them, wash them and sell them in town. Then people use them for kerosene, gas, cooking oil, etc. I have seen oil being sold this way at the market (not store but market). Later we were stopped at a tourist shop (perhaps he gets a commission? He said they have nice washrooms) to use the restrooms and stretch and I saw the staff picking bottles out of the garbage as well. The thing is.... I am now less interested in that oil at the market because I find myself over thinking the washing method as well as what might have been in the bottles previously.
I also now understand why all the milk served warm at the local restaurants. Milk here, as well as many places, is sold in the shelf stable boxes and I somehow imagined the restaurants using this. Of course it makes more sense they would not. I saw the daladalas (small buses, like a van but that somehow pack a lot of people in) returning from town with various scratched up (and dirty on the outside) buckets and containers all tried up along the back and top. I asked Victor what they had sold in town in those buckets. He said milk, they go into town and sell it to restaurants and hotels. On one of my morning runs I ran by women in town selling them out of these buckets on the sidewalk and the buckets smelled a little sour. I saw them pouring them into re-used bottles with big funnels. Back at he hotel, where I meet Paul's classmates for the run, I saw their Massai night guard walking a giant plastic bottle back to the kitchen. So now, as I understand it, when I am out and we get milk we are getting that milk and they heat it for safety rather than service. Only now I wonder about the place where the boys and I found thick milkshakes (rather than the one we had early on that was an interesting take on milkshake: frothy milk, as if whisked, and a small scoop of ice cream)..... What are they doing with that milk since it's cold? Sometimes knowing too much isn't helpful.
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