Sometimes You Gotta Dance

"Self-preservation is a full time occupation, I'm determined to survive on these shores I don't avert my eyes anymore in a man's world I am a woman by birth and after nineteen times around I have found they will stop at nothing once they know what you are worth. Talk to me now. I played the powerless in too many dark scenes and I was blessed with a birth and a death and I guess I just want some say in between. Don't you understand in the day to day, in the face to face, I have to act just as strong as I can, just to preserve a place where I can be who I am."

-Ani DiFranco

February 1, 2009

I am walking through ankle deep mud in my best shoes. A small girl in a blue frilly dress is asleep on my shoulder. I am sore from holding her but I am afraid that if I move it will wake her. Pulling on my other hand and telling me the rain is coming is another girl, large dark eyes look quizzically at me. Behind me two small boys squeal with glee as they run barefoot through the mud puddles. Why am I in this situation, In the rain with four small African children? Maybe I should start at the beginning of this day, although it already seems so long ago. My best friend here, Kate, always says before we go out at night something along the lines of "I love Tanzania, you never know who you are going to meet, what you are going to do or where you will end up." It could not be more true for everything PCVs do. I know that even in America you don't know how your day will turn out, but here you really just don't know. We have control of so little.

So I wake up at 6.30 am because my village chairperson is at my door. I like this man. He has no idea what to do with me but he tries. He tells me that there is a meeting about coffee that morning and i should come. (I hope this meeting involves drinking some coffee and not just growing it, but i have a feeling it doesn't.) So I rush to get all ready and run to wake-up Juster just in case I might miss any portion of what is being said. We finally get to his office and he tells me that the people are late but would I like to see some coffee growing? Sure, why not? I am already out here. So at the late hour of 7.15 am I am tromping through a coffee field after the most respected man in my village who is dressed like an Oregon Duck- in solid dark green with a bright gold chai hat. The coffee field is beautiful in early morning and an innovative cash crop for my villagers. So I am glad to know about it. We head back to his office to wait for the meeting, but I take advantage of the moment to get my notebook and go over my agenda for what I want his help with.

After all, I am wearing my "Let's get it done" outfit. I should explain it. I think it is now clear to the reader that women are second class citizens in TZ, particularly in a village. This is something that I will never be good at accepting. I find more and more of a likeness with my sister, Raeme, because we are two of a kind, feisty and firey and likely to say things like, "It's not fair." Often I feel her strength compounded with my own when I face what I feel is an injustice in Africa. So I have this outfit- nothing special it just seems to command more respect. We were told to dress like Tanzanians but I find the more American I dress the more respect I get. The outfit is jeans, with my new African wrap around skirt over it. My new Obama T-shirt, a grungy green sweatshirt and maybe the best thing I brought to Africa- my paperboy hat. Women don't wear hats here, at least not masculine hats, but the weird thing is the response I get from women is that I look beautiful and from men is more respect so it is a win/win hat.

I start to go over what I think the village needs. Meanwhile, Kimulimuli, who has taken to riding on my shoulder, is sitting in Juster's lap while she is busy de-fleaing him with her fingers. Ugh... I think. This is so unprofessional- I am in a meeting with the most important man in my village in his office (really a hut) and my kitten is being de-fleaed. This goes against the meeting professionalism standards that I have been taught for my entire adult life. Then I notice the man across from me in the waiting area is in a sweatpants outfit, a top hat and has a big brown goat on a leash. There it is! This is Africa! Didn't I come here in part to escape the professionalism standards of the Western world? Extend play a bit longer? A goat and cat come to meetings because they can and no one thinks twice about it except for me. The Chairman listens to my ideas, is excited about beekeeping and has infinite more projects for me to think about most of which require a lot of money and time. Since I am the first volunteer, they believe that I can do anything.The clock strikes 10 and the bells toll for church- this is technically when it starts but no one will be there for hours still... Can't be on time by any means.

Today church will be special. It is the day the Mwalimu Mkuu's (Head teacher) son will be baptized. The MM's wife (Mama Atu), me, Juster, Jen, Mama Latifah, Mama Lau, Mama Clevel, and Maria (All PS Teachers) and Atu (The MM's seven year old daughter) walk to church together. The male teachers will meet us there because they sit in a separate section from the women. I get the honor of carrying the young son who rests his head against my neck. Along the way we pass a popular kilabu (hut where men drink homemade alcohol called pombe). My driver, Stanley, is there along with other men I know most of who are my age or older. The women I am with very properly avert their eyes, curtsy, and murmur respectful greetings. The men just nod to them. I decide to shake things up a bit. I go right over to them, shake their hands, greet at an equal level, make eye contact and tease them for drinking instead of attending church. This is met with laughter and an offer of a chair and a dirty cup of pombe. I reject all and move on. Juster tells me I should not have greeted men this way, but before I can say anything, Maria (who is actually somehow a bit modern and runs a kilabu after school hours) interjects and says it is okay for me to do because I am different. I try to tell them that they don't have to behave this way either- but trying to change a cultural custom in a TZ village is rough. This is one of the hardest things about living here. The women have repeatedly asked me who I need to get permission from. Permission for what? I ask. The answer: permission to leave the village, buy things, plant things- permission for living! The women really need to talk with my Dad and Reed if they think things like getting permission work with me. TZ women are apparently unaware of rebellious American girls. I tell them I don't need permission from anyone, it's a free country (Maybe that doesn't work so well here),- I am unmarried and my Dad's not here and in America women are independent. Just the same they suggest maybe you can ask the MM or the Chairperson for permission- like my life is lacking by not having a man tell me what to do. "No No" I say. "I like them, I will ask their advice, but never their permission."

Finally we get to the church and take our seats in the women's section. The baby needs to nurse so I hand him to Mama Atu. Atu sits next to me holding my hand. She is attempting, like usual, not to stare at me. I can tell her parents have told her not to, but I catch her watching me out of the corner of my eye. Mwalimu Mjemah comes over to place his daughter, Anna, next to Atu before sitting with the male teachers. Oh Anna- where to begin? Anna is the most beautiful perfect looking child I have ever seen. Today she is decked out in a pale blue silky and white lace dress, gold studs shine in her ears and bracelets and necklaces deck her body- some I recognize are to ward off the evil eye and other such witchcraft but many are just for beauty- sake. A little two year old princess, she is darling. Her skin is smooth and dark, like someone has polished it. Her teeth are small and white and surrounded by large upturned lips. Her eyes slant when she smiles. Everyday she looks like a princess. A total "Daddy's girl", I think every cent of Mjemah's teacher salary goes to that child. She is his only child and it is sweet to see a Tanzanian man so in love with his daughter. I am not sure where her mother is. I love Anna, if you cannot tell. She is frilly, girly and precious with just one problem- she hates me. I cannot get close to her. She is terrified and cries whenever she sees me. Today at church she makes like she is going to cry even with Atu in between us, but Atu coddles her into behaving. The great thing is I have finally found a way to distract myself during church, I try to get Anna to like me.

I use little movements, nothing to sudden but suddenly I have her on my lap. Her blue dress laid out primly and all my rings hanging off her fingers. Her eyes are slanted and I see her white teeth, her lips spread in a smile. She spends church babbling away in Swahili to me ( I learned a lot of Swahili from her). I hold her like my own little doll and contemplate how I could take her from Mjemah. At the end of the service Mjemah is beaming. I think he is proud of her but also clearly happy that I love his daughter. He attempts to take her back but she cries no that she wants "Bee!" She is mine! At least for the day. Mjemah goes off to the kilabu with the rest of the male teachers who will meet us at the MM's house that night for the party. The women are supposed to start cooking. First they have to go to the farms to collect the food to cook. The farms are outside the village and I can tell Anna is tired, so I suggest I go back to the MM's home to wait to help cook.

So I set out carrying Anna across my village but Lau and Clevel want to come because the Mzungu is so much more exciting than their mothers. These two boys spend all day in the dirt with no supervision. All four of their parents are teachers and always too busy for them. Clevel we joke is Mchumba Yangu (My Fiancee). He is three and very proud that we are getting married. He is the son of Mtitu and Wimbe. Lau is the five year old son of Vakinga and Simon. On a side note, I am lucky to have these kids. Being teachers kids they are not afraid of me at all and set a good example for the rest of the village kids. After a few feet I look down and see Atu holding my hand. Both her parents are teachers too. The head teacher and Anita or Mama Atu. Atu is a serious little girl who works hard and is always respectful. I think maybe the mamas just wanted a baby sitter before I realize they sent Atu to be mine and Lau and Clevel never need anyone. And it starts to rain, and Anna falls asleep and there I am trekking across my village with mud in my church shoes and four African children. The villagers we pass look at my with curiosity, but I am proud to be with these children who love me. We finally get to the house. The boys play with sticks, I sing with Anna and Atu sets about starting fires and cleaning the house for her mothers arrival.

The mamas come and we sit in the smoky cooking hut together. We finish and the men come back from drinking with sodas in crates for the rest of the evening. I am told to sit to the right of the MM to the left is Simon (2nd in command). I realize once again that I am being put with the men. I am surrounded by Msanga, Mjemah, Mwalango, Wimbe... the male teachers. Mama Atu, who in my mind should be next to her husband is washing our hands with a pitcher and basin. The women begin to come with plates heaped with food. The woman comes and kneels in front of her husband and with down turned eyes offers the plate of food. The man takes it, nods and she rises. I try in my head to see this as an act of love, but it is difficult. After Mama Lau serves Simon, she comes to me with food, kneels and looks ashamed. I notice her hands which are worn with farming. She and I are the same age, yet she has creases by her eyes, her body has given birth to a healthy son, her mind has tried to shape the education of countless children in our village. I wonder why she looks ashamed. Farmer, teacher, mother, woman... I feel insignificant and unaccomplished next to her, yet what can I do but take the plate (Which she has carefully prepared with no meat) and murmur "Asante." And think of a Setswana poem I came across in a book, "We are the ones who first ploughed the earth when God made it. We were the ones who made the food. We are the ones who look after the men when they are little boys, when they are young men, and when they grow old and are about to die. We are always there. But we are just women and nobody sees us."

So I eat with the male teachers, the women eat in another room and the children eat in the dirt in the yard. After the food, Jen and Mama Latifah decide it is time to dance. So all of my teachers get up and dance but I sit cautiously with Mama Atu while she nurses her child. If you have never seen a room full of TZ PS teachers dance than come visit. It is a sight. TZ dancing is great because everyone does their own thing. What is not great is when they come together for a jump or toe tap that is on some unknown (to me) cue. So I sit on the side and they yell "Brie, Cheza!" (Dance!) The women look great and the men handsome except Mwlango and Mjemah who are dancing like women to make Simon laugh which makes us all laugh. There comes a point in life when you just have to dive in head first- coming to Africa was one of those points for me. Where you have to cast all fears, doubts and inhibitions aside and grab the bull by the horns so to speak. There have been countless moments since coming here that I have had to jump right in. To be an American in Africa you cannot be afraid. No fear of being different, foolish, the butt of the joke, you have to smile and do something Americans suck at---- be humble. Say" I don't know... I don't understand... I need help." You have to give up our culture of wanting to be the best and have all the answers. To give up being in control and put together. I sit there and watch the party and wonder how many times in my life have I sat on the sidelines? How many experiences have I let myself miss? How much have I let my life be controlled by some kind of fear? ( I almost missed this whole experience of Africa because of fear!) This stops now. This is MY village in Tanzania! I stand up to the shouts and cheers of my friends and I dance all out. So what if they jump two feet higher on the jumps and I shake to the left instead of the right. Someone is always there to hold my hand and guide me. I forget we are different and ignore that my white foot with the red toenails goes into the center circle seconds later than all the brown ones. We are having fun and I am included. Then there is always the great thing about Tanzanians that appeals to our American pride- the shouts of "Brie, Umecheza nzuri" (You dance well) or "Sasa, Umependeza!" (Now you have become beautiful). We dance and dance and I wonder why my parents never had parties like this when I was little and then I remember that when they were 24 I was not 5 like most of these kids. But here the kids dance, the parents dance, I dance, until Jen and Juster dance me right on home. And I am content and pleased with myself. It is time to stop sitting ones out. I live in Tanzania- I am game for anything.