“Learn from yesterday. Live for today. Hope for tomorrow.” –Albert Einstein
February 17, 2010
My primary school has asked me to teach five days a week there this year. The dispensary wants me to be there two days a week. I am supposed to teach two nights a week at the bar and do infinite other things- at that schedule I have no idea how I would ever bathe, wash any clothes or eat anything. Suddenly, it has occurred to my villagers that August 2010 is practically right on top of us and Brie is leaving soon. I am literally begged to stay here. I have no idea what I have done that was so dramatic where the need me to live here forever more, but I must admit that sometimes it is a tempting offer.
Life here in Image is often splendid. I have my little dirty house, my village friends, reading in the evening and playing during the day. Who knew that I would ever view Image as an easy place to be? As opposed to reintegrating into fast-paced, materialistic America, Tanzania seems blissful. The Njombe girls and I often joke about how we dress, our habits (particularly in personal hygiene), the way that we talk… etc. would never fly in American culture. Yet it is so easy when you have four different outfits to wear and all of your friends do too so there is never any judgment. I try to picture living completely in America and mostly it seems really boring. I can’t wait to see my family- extended and immediate, but beyond that- America for years and years and years… Going to an office, watching television, cooking Trader Joe’s pasta over an electric stove, a warm shower at the turn of a faucet- where is the unknown? The adventure? It still amazes me that I was ever able to get used to no running water, lighting a fire if I want something to eat, and living with a million spiders- but I guess people are very good at adapting. About the spiders (this part is dedicated to you, Shanny), They are on everything that I pick up, so therefore, they are constantly on me. I can now ignore them. Although there are huge (I really mean huge), brightly colored ones that build their webs into tunnels under the eaves of my house. As long as they stay in their tunnels, I can ignore that they are there, it is when they come out of their tunnels that my skin crawls. This is basically my (and most of my girlfriends) rule of living in Tanzania- if you can’t see it than it doesn’t exist. So all those noises in my ceiling boards? I can’t see anything, so nothing is actually there. This works until you are my friend, Kate, and a rat runs through your hair while you are trying to sleep…
However, all that said, I will always be an American, some values and beliefs just run too deep. For instance, Tanzanians pay a lot of attention to skin color. In my opinion, way too much attention. The lighter you are, than the more beautiful you are. Every shop sells a million lightening products, which I don’t think could possibly work. Anyways, a man came to Image village to visit some extended family, and naturally was interested in what I was doing there. Of course, he had to start the conversation off with Obama. For some reason Tanzanians taking credit for Obama really pisses me off. They can be proud of him, but he is a full-fledged American product. This guy starts to insist that America has a Kenyan as president. I tell him, like I have to let all Tanzanians know, that he has barely been to Kenya, he doesn’t speak Swahili, he was born in America and even has a law degree- all of this adding up to someone who is definitely not an East African. Mama Max even adds, “His mom looks like Brie, so he is an American.” (All white people look the same to Tanzanians- don’t even get me started on this.) In Tanzania, tribal lines get passed down paternally- so you are automatically the tribe that your father is. By this reasoning, I understand the Tanzanian confusion, but this is not this guy’s reasoning. Instead he goes on to say, “No, he is black, so he will never be an American.” This makes me incredibly angry for some reason, but I try to stay calm because this is a stupid argument to have with someone who has next to no schooling and probably cannot find America on a map. Although, I am thinking take credit for Bush if you must, Obama is ours. So I take a deep breath and explain that a lot of black people live in America, they are either born there or marry an American citizen, both of which, make them an American. Color doesn’t have anything to do with it. The villagers who have gathered around to listen, look skeptical. So I go on with that I could still be white and a Tanzanian, if I had been born here. This just floors them, and the man says, “There is absolutely no way a white person could ever be a Tanzanian.”
For a white girl growing up in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon, I have never been a minority. In fact, you were probably the child of a professional basketball player if you went to high school anywhere in my district and were black. Today, I feel like that I can argue that I know what it feels like to be a minority. Now that I am used to living in Africa, it is generally really easy to ignore and sometimes even to forget about altogether. But sometimes being a minority is on the forefront of everything. I think that I could even argue that I have experience some racism and some reverse-racism or being favored because I am an American. Certainly, I could argue that my mugging over a year ago had everything to do with me being white. Probably also whatever village guy tried to come through my bedroom window had everything to do with my skin color. My PC friends and I are cheated on everything if we are not careful- we get offered bad prices on everything, fake bus tickets, broken cell phones, etc. because apparently dollar signs swirl around us like smoke. I hate being called a Mzungu (white person), I would never yell “black person!” at some person across the street in America. I hate being told that I am pretty because of how white my skin is. I hate that it takes a really long time to know if a Tanzanian is your friend or just using you. I hate that I am talked about like I am not there or too stupid to understand what is going on. That is why Image Village is usually my saving grace, because these days no one dares do any of that to me. I certainly believe that African Americans have a long way to go until they are perceived as equal in America- it was never more obvious than in the last election. (“Is America ready to have a black president?” I can’t even count the number of times in the media I heard that question and I still cannot believe how the average American thinks black and white people are any different. I have spent almost two years surrounded by black people- they themselves are not any different, Tanzanian culture is.) Tanzanians need to learn that white people are people too, not just a walking dollar sign. People are just people. It angers me that we have spent centuries trying to define and confine what is different and fear what we perceive is unknown.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Death Lives in Africa
Watching Kimulimuli attempt to die is one of the hardest moments of my time so far in Tanzania. When he came home, it only took me about a day to realize that he had ticks all over his body (13 in total). The idea of removing fully engorged ticks fully grosses me out, so it is lucky that I live in a Tanzanian village because not much grosses them out. So I go to get Juster, but unfortunately she is just a bit too “Brie” and she is afraid to remove them also. So my besti, Mary, can always be relied upon, she is a teacher too but still able to be a tick-remover. Kimulimuli fights us for all he is worth and end up scratching both of us and running away before we can even remove one. I despair. I can’t remove them alone and still be Brienne, but I also can’t let a cat suffer and still be me either. So it occurs to be to ask Swela. I mentioned him in an earlier blog- he is our agricultural extension officer from Mbeya. He is doing his fieldwork in Image for his college degree. He is living here for nine months with his wife and child (he looks about 12, but of course, being Tanzanian he needs a wife and child.) Unfortunately, I cannot find him until the next day. By this time Kimulimuli is having what can only be described as explosive diarrhea, that he seems not to be able to control. He is lethargic and his eyes look weird. I don’t know much about anything, but I do know that explosive diarrhea is not a good sign in Africa. It is the number one killer in Tanzanian children under five.
Swela comes over and I explain the situation and that Kimulimuli is a good fighter. Swela leaves and comes back with a de-worming shot that he uses on the Image livestock and two more Tanzanians to help me hold Muli down. My firefly cat fights but eventually gives up as Swela methodically removes all the ticks and administers the shot. Now, days later, Kimulimuli is just as bad. He still eats and drinks, but he has diarrhea everywhere, he cries constantly and rubs on my legs nonstop. It makes me feel a bit better that he is still affectionate, but then I remember that the cat I grew up with, Bodhi, purred and rubbed until his final moment of life. It hurts me to watch him. I feel like a horrible person, but I have no idea what is wrong with him. My mom, is usually my go to person on all issues I don’t know about, but she is with my dad in Mexico. There is nothing that I can think to do, it is not like there is a vet around the corner. We live in the middle of the bush. So I have to do what all Tanzanian do- wait, hope and pray that death is not coming to my family. I have been so close to death here, holding a dying baby for her last breath, going to burial after burial, witnessing the ends of so many lives. I have watched death here in Image and it makes its rounds and seems to be busier than anywhere else that I have ever been.
Swela comes over and I explain the situation and that Kimulimuli is a good fighter. Swela leaves and comes back with a de-worming shot that he uses on the Image livestock and two more Tanzanians to help me hold Muli down. My firefly cat fights but eventually gives up as Swela methodically removes all the ticks and administers the shot. Now, days later, Kimulimuli is just as bad. He still eats and drinks, but he has diarrhea everywhere, he cries constantly and rubs on my legs nonstop. It makes me feel a bit better that he is still affectionate, but then I remember that the cat I grew up with, Bodhi, purred and rubbed until his final moment of life. It hurts me to watch him. I feel like a horrible person, but I have no idea what is wrong with him. My mom, is usually my go to person on all issues I don’t know about, but she is with my dad in Mexico. There is nothing that I can think to do, it is not like there is a vet around the corner. We live in the middle of the bush. So I have to do what all Tanzanian do- wait, hope and pray that death is not coming to my family. I have been so close to death here, holding a dying baby for her last breath, going to burial after burial, witnessing the ends of so many lives. I have watched death here in Image and it makes its rounds and seems to be busier than anywhere else that I have ever been.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My Best Valentine's Day Ever!
“In this life one cannot do great things. One can do small things with great love.” –Mother Teresa
February 14, 2010
In Tanzania, it is difficult to know the date, or even the month. None of that really matters. What is important is- is it the dry or rainy season? What do we plant now? But a few days ago, I realized that it was almost Valentine’s Day. I thought about Valentine’s Day in America: how when I was little my Dad used to bring me home a box of chocolates, about nice dinners at fancy restaurants, about jewelry and flowers and Hallmark cards, about single women who prepare themselves to eat a carton of Ben and Jerry’s and feel bad for themselves. I thought about that latter group and how that is what socially I should fit into, but because in a Tanzanian village there is no Ben and Jerry’s and because I have decided that 2010 is my year of strength and overall awesomeness- I thought forget that! This is going to be my best Valentine’s Day ever!
What to do? What is Valentine’s Day really about? Well, love for sure, usually romantic love, but I think it could be a more fulfilling holiday if instead of waiting for someone to make you feel that way, you make yourself an instrument of love. To do this, I think, one must first love themselves and then spread it to others, and not just those that one is romantically interested in. Oscar Wilde said “ To love oneself is the beginning of a life long romance.” I decided on this Valentine’s Day to be gentle and loving toward myself and then seep it outward to a few hundred Tanzanians that are my neighbors and family. First things first, this is all about attitude. No feeling bad for myself, no feeling lonely, my life is full. I woke up to the rain. I was happy instead of sad. Our corn is getting watered, I can bathe today, it feels like Oregon… I accepted the rain, because I cannot change it, only how I feel about it. I did yoga and appreciated what my body could do, and was pleased that I could not do everything, because a challenge is good. I lit a fire and made a fabulous breakfast- full pot of black coffee and an egg scramble with every veggie and spice I could find. I tried to appreciate instead of regret the calories that were going in. I got dressed in nice Tanzanian clothes, I fixed my hair and made myself look nice, after all this was my day, no reason to sit around in my pjs. Plus being told that you are beautiful by a Tanzanian village feels good.
The day was special. I told and showed people in a million ways how much I loved them. I gave gifts, I was physically affectionate, I completed acts of service for those I love, I used words to tell them what they meant. I showed love to all ages and genders. I did not discriminate between people I knew or didn’t know, or whether they were dirty, poor, sick or not. Everyone I came into contact with received some form of love. And the funniest thing happened… I received it back! I guess I should have predicted that by loving myself and giving that love to others they would want to send it right back, but I received it ten fold! I am usually given gifts and told nice things by Image villagers, but today was deeper, more intense, and bigger than ever before.
I had a coloring party with about 30 primary school students. We drew on my porch on the subject “Love begins with me”. Suddenly, I had a ton of cards that were better than any Hallmark card I have ever received.
That afternoon I cooked kande with a bunch of mamas. Kande is one of my favorite Tanzanian foods it is beans and maize cooked together with a bit of salt and ginger. Then we gathered around in a circle and ate out of the big pot with our hands. We joked and told stories and played with the little kids.
At the bar that evening, I explained the concept of Valentine’s Day to the guys and told them that they should do something nice for their wives. I told them what American men do: cook dinner, help out more with chores, bring home a gift… etc. They laughed a bit, Tanzanian men think American men are totally whipped, but I try to show them that isn’t a bad thing. That night there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find about a dozen of my young guy friends with a hand picked bouquet of flowers (straight from our primary school flower bed- oops!). I almost cried because I was so in shock. “For you,” they told me, “because it is your country’s holiday and you are alone.” I laughed and thanked them, but then said, “You know, I am not really alone.” There is a lot of love in this world. If one cares to put some love out there, it will find you right back.
Late that night I heard meow-ing in the distance. I flung open the door and Kimulimuli ran right in. I have no idea where he had been and Giza is still gone, but a little piece of my heart was put back into place.
February 14, 2010
In Tanzania, it is difficult to know the date, or even the month. None of that really matters. What is important is- is it the dry or rainy season? What do we plant now? But a few days ago, I realized that it was almost Valentine’s Day. I thought about Valentine’s Day in America: how when I was little my Dad used to bring me home a box of chocolates, about nice dinners at fancy restaurants, about jewelry and flowers and Hallmark cards, about single women who prepare themselves to eat a carton of Ben and Jerry’s and feel bad for themselves. I thought about that latter group and how that is what socially I should fit into, but because in a Tanzanian village there is no Ben and Jerry’s and because I have decided that 2010 is my year of strength and overall awesomeness- I thought forget that! This is going to be my best Valentine’s Day ever!
What to do? What is Valentine’s Day really about? Well, love for sure, usually romantic love, but I think it could be a more fulfilling holiday if instead of waiting for someone to make you feel that way, you make yourself an instrument of love. To do this, I think, one must first love themselves and then spread it to others, and not just those that one is romantically interested in. Oscar Wilde said “ To love oneself is the beginning of a life long romance.” I decided on this Valentine’s Day to be gentle and loving toward myself and then seep it outward to a few hundred Tanzanians that are my neighbors and family. First things first, this is all about attitude. No feeling bad for myself, no feeling lonely, my life is full. I woke up to the rain. I was happy instead of sad. Our corn is getting watered, I can bathe today, it feels like Oregon… I accepted the rain, because I cannot change it, only how I feel about it. I did yoga and appreciated what my body could do, and was pleased that I could not do everything, because a challenge is good. I lit a fire and made a fabulous breakfast- full pot of black coffee and an egg scramble with every veggie and spice I could find. I tried to appreciate instead of regret the calories that were going in. I got dressed in nice Tanzanian clothes, I fixed my hair and made myself look nice, after all this was my day, no reason to sit around in my pjs. Plus being told that you are beautiful by a Tanzanian village feels good.
The day was special. I told and showed people in a million ways how much I loved them. I gave gifts, I was physically affectionate, I completed acts of service for those I love, I used words to tell them what they meant. I showed love to all ages and genders. I did not discriminate between people I knew or didn’t know, or whether they were dirty, poor, sick or not. Everyone I came into contact with received some form of love. And the funniest thing happened… I received it back! I guess I should have predicted that by loving myself and giving that love to others they would want to send it right back, but I received it ten fold! I am usually given gifts and told nice things by Image villagers, but today was deeper, more intense, and bigger than ever before.
I had a coloring party with about 30 primary school students. We drew on my porch on the subject “Love begins with me”. Suddenly, I had a ton of cards that were better than any Hallmark card I have ever received.
That afternoon I cooked kande with a bunch of mamas. Kande is one of my favorite Tanzanian foods it is beans and maize cooked together with a bit of salt and ginger. Then we gathered around in a circle and ate out of the big pot with our hands. We joked and told stories and played with the little kids.
At the bar that evening, I explained the concept of Valentine’s Day to the guys and told them that they should do something nice for their wives. I told them what American men do: cook dinner, help out more with chores, bring home a gift… etc. They laughed a bit, Tanzanian men think American men are totally whipped, but I try to show them that isn’t a bad thing. That night there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find about a dozen of my young guy friends with a hand picked bouquet of flowers (straight from our primary school flower bed- oops!). I almost cried because I was so in shock. “For you,” they told me, “because it is your country’s holiday and you are alone.” I laughed and thanked them, but then said, “You know, I am not really alone.” There is a lot of love in this world. If one cares to put some love out there, it will find you right back.
Late that night I heard meow-ing in the distance. I flung open the door and Kimulimuli ran right in. I have no idea where he had been and Giza is still gone, but a little piece of my heart was put back into place.
Village Life Continues...
Something horrible has happened. Kimulimuli and Giza are both missing. I left them at the teachers’ houses like I normally do when I go to town, and when I returned no one had seen them in over a day. Now back in my village a week, still no sign of either of them. I tried to not get attached to them, knowing that things happen to pets here, but I am crushed. I didn’t realize how I relied on them. I also feel guilty and horrible that something happened to them and it was my fault. To make matters worse, I woke up to a rat asleep on my windowsill; they run through my roof at night and have taken over. Those cats served a purpose, and the rats just remind me of what I have lost. My villagers don’t seem to get it, because cats are just cats and are interchangeable. Get another one, they tell me. Not really understanding that I only want those ones. I need one though, but to get one means accepting that my feline family is gone. I will never forget how much they loved me and how they made my life here full. I have offered a reward to anyone finding either of them, but that has just led to villagers showing up with random orange cats that vaguely resemble Kimulimuli. Juster seems to get my attachment to them and is trying to help me, but she doesn’t really live here anymore. The loss of them was a blow that I really didn’t need now.
Village life continues…
Imelda successfully finished her first year of secondary school thanks to my money and her brains. A new school year has started… Lau is now in standard one and Anna is attending a preschool type thing at the primary school. My third group of standard 7 students have begun classes on health and life skills- how is it possible I have been here that long?
Mario, my drunken village executive officer, somehow scraped together the money to buy a car. Unfortunately, he bought some little Toyota type car and not a big four-wheel drive land rover, so while it works in Image, during the rainy season there is no way that it can leave the village. Since Mario prefers to remain drunk, William has always been his motorcycle driver, and while no one rivals William’s skill on the motorcycle, a car is an entirely different thing. He had never driven one. So while I watched him struggle to start the car while in drive instead of park, I figured that this guy could use some help. Teaching William how to drive has been somewhat hilarious. For one thing, everyone is so excited about the car, there is always about six guys crammed into the backseat just to go along for the lesson. Teaching is funny because everything is one the wrong side. They have to move the gearshift with their left hand instead of their right like Americans. I wonder how they feel about this since Tanzanians do next to nothing with their left hands (it is the “unclean” one). Pretty much no one can drive in my village, so they are all stunned that I know how to and have been for about a decade. The women are thrilled because the men have the idea that no woman can handle driving, so I really want to teach a woman how to drive the car next.
Maybe an even funnier story has been teaching Puce how to play Cribbage. He is horrible. I am not sure that Tanzanians are very good at planning ahead or strategizing in a Cribbage type way. Puce has a million questions. He is good at many things, but it doesn’t look like Cribbage will be one of them.
On an embarrassing Brie moment: I had a huge intellectual conversation about African countries during colonization, while I was at the village bar peeling potatoes, and talking to many of Image’s men. I kept talking about South Africa and apartied. Of course the conversation was in Swahili, and I noticed every time I said the “South” , in South Africa, the guys made eye contact. Finally, when I was done going on and on, William tells me casually, “Brie, just so you know, you weren’t saying South. You were saying the verb for illicit sex.” All the guys are trying not to laugh, I probably turned bright red, but laughed and said, “All right already, why did you all wait to correct me!?!” Then they all just cracked up. Oh Geez.
I watched the “African Queen” for the first time since living in Africa. What a brilliant movie. I was so lucky to have parents that showed us weird movies for kids to love at young ages. I didn’t realize that it took place in Tanzania and Bogart even speaks a bit of Swahili in it! I remember watching it as a child and dreaming about this amazing continent. I thought my romance with Tanzania would end. It should after what I have been through here. My friend Matt told me, “People are always attached to places where they have great trials and come out on top.” Maybe that is it. Why I still love Africa. A place that is wild, beautiful, violent, but free. Tanzania has been a journey that challenged what I didn’t even know I had.
Village life continues…
Imelda successfully finished her first year of secondary school thanks to my money and her brains. A new school year has started… Lau is now in standard one and Anna is attending a preschool type thing at the primary school. My third group of standard 7 students have begun classes on health and life skills- how is it possible I have been here that long?
Mario, my drunken village executive officer, somehow scraped together the money to buy a car. Unfortunately, he bought some little Toyota type car and not a big four-wheel drive land rover, so while it works in Image, during the rainy season there is no way that it can leave the village. Since Mario prefers to remain drunk, William has always been his motorcycle driver, and while no one rivals William’s skill on the motorcycle, a car is an entirely different thing. He had never driven one. So while I watched him struggle to start the car while in drive instead of park, I figured that this guy could use some help. Teaching William how to drive has been somewhat hilarious. For one thing, everyone is so excited about the car, there is always about six guys crammed into the backseat just to go along for the lesson. Teaching is funny because everything is one the wrong side. They have to move the gearshift with their left hand instead of their right like Americans. I wonder how they feel about this since Tanzanians do next to nothing with their left hands (it is the “unclean” one). Pretty much no one can drive in my village, so they are all stunned that I know how to and have been for about a decade. The women are thrilled because the men have the idea that no woman can handle driving, so I really want to teach a woman how to drive the car next.
Maybe an even funnier story has been teaching Puce how to play Cribbage. He is horrible. I am not sure that Tanzanians are very good at planning ahead or strategizing in a Cribbage type way. Puce has a million questions. He is good at many things, but it doesn’t look like Cribbage will be one of them.
On an embarrassing Brie moment: I had a huge intellectual conversation about African countries during colonization, while I was at the village bar peeling potatoes, and talking to many of Image’s men. I kept talking about South Africa and apartied. Of course the conversation was in Swahili, and I noticed every time I said the “South” , in South Africa, the guys made eye contact. Finally, when I was done going on and on, William tells me casually, “Brie, just so you know, you weren’t saying South. You were saying the verb for illicit sex.” All the guys are trying not to laugh, I probably turned bright red, but laughed and said, “All right already, why did you all wait to correct me!?!” Then they all just cracked up. Oh Geez.
I watched the “African Queen” for the first time since living in Africa. What a brilliant movie. I was so lucky to have parents that showed us weird movies for kids to love at young ages. I didn’t realize that it took place in Tanzania and Bogart even speaks a bit of Swahili in it! I remember watching it as a child and dreaming about this amazing continent. I thought my romance with Tanzania would end. It should after what I have been through here. My friend Matt told me, “People are always attached to places where they have great trials and come out on top.” Maybe that is it. Why I still love Africa. A place that is wild, beautiful, violent, but free. Tanzania has been a journey that challenged what I didn’t even know I had.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Christmas in Image Village
December 24-25, 2009
Image village's first Baby Brie has been born. I didn't even have to have her myself or be conceited enough to name a child after me. I feel a little bad for her because she inherited a name from some white person she will never really know and it is a difficult name for Tanzanians to say. She is the fourth daughter of Kipambe and this third wife. He has six wives in total and 21 kids that he knows of, he told me once proudly- I said the only thing that I could say- "Ummm, Wow." So now there is a Brie in the family- she is small and pretty with engaging eyes. We look nothing alike. (Haha)
The exam score have come back and I was very pleased that Rebecca (Catherine's older sister) was successful and will be going to the best secondary school in our area. Msanga, her uncle, has already put money aside for tuition for his brilliant orphaned niece. Rebecca proudly came to my house to tell me. Smiling, she said, "Brie, maybe I really will get to be a doctor!" I reminded her that she can be whatever she wants.
Christmas eve. I sit with a bottle of South African wine and a pot of popcorn that my cats are sharing with me. Nothing in this scene feels like Christmas. So I pretend that it is not. Sometimes it is just easier that way. I think about all the guys at the bar who I asked earlier when they were going home to be with their wives and children. They looked confused, like they didn't know what they were supposed to do at home with their families on Christmas. What should they really be doing? Making a fire in the big stone fireplace, watching their kids open their flannel pjs, eating the pie their wife cooked, making sure that all of the Christmas lights are working, reading "Mortimer the Moose" or singing "You're a Mean One Mister Grinch", thinking about how they will make boot prints on the hearth and tell their children that they heard sleigh bells and hooves landing on the thatched roof? I realize that I don't know what they should do. All my ideas embody my own father and are silly in a African context.
The next morning, I wake up and go to church. It is actually very beautiful. They have decorated and the dancing and singing is the best that I have seen in Tanzania. After church it is like an enormous block party, everybody is cooking, eating, singing, dancing, playing all over our village. That night, while I am squatting behind a pig sty (literally) watching my villagers dance around the bonfire, their shadows moving in the dark, I think about how surreal it is hat I would ever be peeing behind a pig sty on Christmas in a village in the heart of East Africa. This wasn't like a Christmas I had ever had before, but it was one that I will never forget. And I feel happy that the adventure continues, that every morning I wake up somewhere that feeds my adventurous side, where everyday you never know what is going to happen or where you'll end up, so you just go with it...
Image village's first Baby Brie has been born. I didn't even have to have her myself or be conceited enough to name a child after me. I feel a little bad for her because she inherited a name from some white person she will never really know and it is a difficult name for Tanzanians to say. She is the fourth daughter of Kipambe and this third wife. He has six wives in total and 21 kids that he knows of, he told me once proudly- I said the only thing that I could say- "Ummm, Wow." So now there is a Brie in the family- she is small and pretty with engaging eyes. We look nothing alike. (Haha)
The exam score have come back and I was very pleased that Rebecca (Catherine's older sister) was successful and will be going to the best secondary school in our area. Msanga, her uncle, has already put money aside for tuition for his brilliant orphaned niece. Rebecca proudly came to my house to tell me. Smiling, she said, "Brie, maybe I really will get to be a doctor!" I reminded her that she can be whatever she wants.
Christmas eve. I sit with a bottle of South African wine and a pot of popcorn that my cats are sharing with me. Nothing in this scene feels like Christmas. So I pretend that it is not. Sometimes it is just easier that way. I think about all the guys at the bar who I asked earlier when they were going home to be with their wives and children. They looked confused, like they didn't know what they were supposed to do at home with their families on Christmas. What should they really be doing? Making a fire in the big stone fireplace, watching their kids open their flannel pjs, eating the pie their wife cooked, making sure that all of the Christmas lights are working, reading "Mortimer the Moose" or singing "You're a Mean One Mister Grinch", thinking about how they will make boot prints on the hearth and tell their children that they heard sleigh bells and hooves landing on the thatched roof? I realize that I don't know what they should do. All my ideas embody my own father and are silly in a African context.
The next morning, I wake up and go to church. It is actually very beautiful. They have decorated and the dancing and singing is the best that I have seen in Tanzania. After church it is like an enormous block party, everybody is cooking, eating, singing, dancing, playing all over our village. That night, while I am squatting behind a pig sty (literally) watching my villagers dance around the bonfire, their shadows moving in the dark, I think about how surreal it is hat I would ever be peeing behind a pig sty on Christmas in a village in the heart of East Africa. This wasn't like a Christmas I had ever had before, but it was one that I will never forget. And I feel happy that the adventure continues, that every morning I wake up somewhere that feeds my adventurous side, where everyday you never know what is going to happen or where you'll end up, so you just go with it...
Leaving
December 17, 2009
It has recently occurred to me that life is a series of leaving or being left. Sometimes it is intentional, sometimes it just can't be helped and sometimes it is an accident all together. It has made me realize how precious the moments we have with someone really are. There are so many types of connections to be made with people. When I got on the airplane a second time, I ignored it. It was too hard to picture being thousands of miles away from Oregon and all the people I love. I have two pockets of important people that reside on opposite sides of the world- Portland, Oregon and Njombe, Tanzania. Who knew that an invisible red thread would be stretched between these oh so different places? I know what it feels like to be left too. I know what it sounds like- footsteps down the deck, waterfall drops into a ponds, a Jeep starting. I know what leaving feels like- my family all asleep in their beds, except the gaping hole where my dad should have been, but instead is at the hospital miles away. I know what it looks like- the back of someone I love, the empty phone call from someone who is already gone. It looks like me with a backpack on, ignoring the fact that I want to turn around. A tear and a kiss and a dance that is over.
Osmond's mother just died unexpectedly. It was even unexpected for Africa. He and I are the same age but his mother was about 15 years younger than my parents. I am squatting in an overheated courtyard with my village women. I am comtemplating all the different types of leaving and being left while the women wail, for this death they are all crying for real. I sit quietly, holding the corner of Mama Max's skirt like a child, tears roll down my cheek, for some reason I am afraid. After three hours of this, William shows up and I feel relieved. He has been in Njombe, but since he is Osmond's cousin and best friend, I feel grateful that he is there. I shouldn't have... He grabs my wrist and says, "Osmond wants you in the room." I am not sure what the room is all about but suddenly I know that I would rather say with the sobbing women. But instead I am lead through the wailing masses of women to "the room". A dirt floor, a thatched roof, Osmond and Nicky (also their cousin) next to the dead body laying on a piece of cloth on the dusty floor. I am seated between Osmond and Williamlike I am a member of their family. Osmond is dry eyed and stares straight ahead. He breaks my heart. His mother lived across the street and I wonder if he has ever gone a day in his life without seeing her. He takes my hand immediatly. I don't really want to be there. It is hot, it smells bad, the wailing scares me, but I can't just run away. We sit for hours as is the custom. We don't talk, he doesn't let go of my hand, eventually I try to escape my body and go somewhere else in my mind. This way I can ignore the sweat pooling in my bra, my clammy palm in his, the flies playing "red rover, red rover, dead body come over" between the cuts on my feet and legs, Osmond's mother's body and the cuts and sores on William, Nicky and Osmond. When dusk finally arrives we go to a cornfield to bury her. Osmond's sister throws her body on the crude wooden coffin begging God to take her also. I cry. Why did she leave?
The dance together is so short in Africa. It reminds me that you can sorround yourself with as many people and distractions as you want, but in the end all you really have is yourself. I am pleased with the Peace Corps experience for challenging each of us to cultivate that realationship with ourselves. When you are alone in an African village, you really have to be okay with who you are. As Osmond grips my hand like a lifeline, I wonder if there will ever be a point that I don't feel like leaving? That I don't get left? I wonder if there will ever be a time that I am not haunted by foorsteps on the deck, a hole in the bedroom upstairs, the weight of my backpack, women wailing, sweat gathering, flies landing? Then I know that is impossible. All I can do is continue to dance, everything might come and go, but I am my life's constant.
It has recently occurred to me that life is a series of leaving or being left. Sometimes it is intentional, sometimes it just can't be helped and sometimes it is an accident all together. It has made me realize how precious the moments we have with someone really are. There are so many types of connections to be made with people. When I got on the airplane a second time, I ignored it. It was too hard to picture being thousands of miles away from Oregon and all the people I love. I have two pockets of important people that reside on opposite sides of the world- Portland, Oregon and Njombe, Tanzania. Who knew that an invisible red thread would be stretched between these oh so different places? I know what it feels like to be left too. I know what it sounds like- footsteps down the deck, waterfall drops into a ponds, a Jeep starting. I know what leaving feels like- my family all asleep in their beds, except the gaping hole where my dad should have been, but instead is at the hospital miles away. I know what it looks like- the back of someone I love, the empty phone call from someone who is already gone. It looks like me with a backpack on, ignoring the fact that I want to turn around. A tear and a kiss and a dance that is over.
Osmond's mother just died unexpectedly. It was even unexpected for Africa. He and I are the same age but his mother was about 15 years younger than my parents. I am squatting in an overheated courtyard with my village women. I am comtemplating all the different types of leaving and being left while the women wail, for this death they are all crying for real. I sit quietly, holding the corner of Mama Max's skirt like a child, tears roll down my cheek, for some reason I am afraid. After three hours of this, William shows up and I feel relieved. He has been in Njombe, but since he is Osmond's cousin and best friend, I feel grateful that he is there. I shouldn't have... He grabs my wrist and says, "Osmond wants you in the room." I am not sure what the room is all about but suddenly I know that I would rather say with the sobbing women. But instead I am lead through the wailing masses of women to "the room". A dirt floor, a thatched roof, Osmond and Nicky (also their cousin) next to the dead body laying on a piece of cloth on the dusty floor. I am seated between Osmond and Williamlike I am a member of their family. Osmond is dry eyed and stares straight ahead. He breaks my heart. His mother lived across the street and I wonder if he has ever gone a day in his life without seeing her. He takes my hand immediatly. I don't really want to be there. It is hot, it smells bad, the wailing scares me, but I can't just run away. We sit for hours as is the custom. We don't talk, he doesn't let go of my hand, eventually I try to escape my body and go somewhere else in my mind. This way I can ignore the sweat pooling in my bra, my clammy palm in his, the flies playing "red rover, red rover, dead body come over" between the cuts on my feet and legs, Osmond's mother's body and the cuts and sores on William, Nicky and Osmond. When dusk finally arrives we go to a cornfield to bury her. Osmond's sister throws her body on the crude wooden coffin begging God to take her also. I cry. Why did she leave?
The dance together is so short in Africa. It reminds me that you can sorround yourself with as many people and distractions as you want, but in the end all you really have is yourself. I am pleased with the Peace Corps experience for challenging each of us to cultivate that realationship with ourselves. When you are alone in an African village, you really have to be okay with who you are. As Osmond grips my hand like a lifeline, I wonder if there will ever be a point that I don't feel like leaving? That I don't get left? I wonder if there will ever be a time that I am not haunted by foorsteps on the deck, a hole in the bedroom upstairs, the weight of my backpack, women wailing, sweat gathering, flies landing? Then I know that is impossible. All I can do is continue to dance, everything might come and go, but I am my life's constant.
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