Written Tuesday, 1/18/2011
I have been communicating mostly in smiles and broken Kiswahili, which is unfortunate because the people here are the kind I want to talk to the most. They are more generous than anyone I've ever met. Some of them have next to nothing, and yet I still find food and generosity being thrust at me from every direction.
Yesterday, John Mashaka's brother Godfrey came in the morning to visit Perpetua and I, before we all rode out to the site where John is building the volunteer quarters for any future volunteer involvement in his foundation. I was astonished that we could get there without the car flipping over, as some of the roads are so bad that even the guys back home that go 4wheeling would think twice before setting out on them. We passed a small village where the houses are made of balls of clay in a frame of sticks, with aluminum and palm roofs and bathrooms outside made of palm branches. One of the things I have noticed about Africa in general is that you see the women mostly working- carrying water, chopping food, tending fires, etc., while the men can almost always be found sitting under trees, gossiping and calling out "Mzungu!" when I pass by. These villages were no different.
At the build site, we met a man named Asubuhi ("Asubuhi" means "morning" in Kiswahili, and he was born in the morning so that's what his mother named him) who was working on the building. He showed us the deep septic wells he was digging, and the house, made of concrete bricks. He offered Perpetua and Godfrey some fresh mango (I couldn't take any because there was no way for me to wash it using clean water) and we sat in the shade for awhile, them talking and me listening for words I could understand, occasionally asking what a phrase meant.
I'm learning the language as quickly as I could have hoped, under the patient instruction of Perpetua and many others, and can form a few small sentences now: "Unasema Kiingereza?" (Do you speak English?), "Nasema Kiswahili kidogo," (I understand a little Kiswahili), "Ninapenda vyura," (I like frogs), and "Tafadhali nipatie maji na chakula yakunya?", (May I please have some water and food?"). Godfrey says that he believes I will be speaking quite fluently within the month if I continue improving. It's ambitious, but hopefully I won't disappoint him.
We sat in the shade for some time. Another thing I have noticed about African culture is that the people enjoy taking time to sit and talk to one another, something I enjoy because it forces me to try and understand what they are saying. I keep a little book with me so I can write words and phrases down, instead of annoying Perpetua with the constant question "What does this mean again?"
After leaving the site, we drove through the village again where I made my first Tanzanian purchase of a ginger soda. We next drove to John Mashaka's aunt's house, where I met his cousins and his niece, Florence, who was one of the most adorable and happy babies I have ever met (and I have met a lot of babies). Her mother, John's sister, watched us playing for awhile and said "You need a baby", to which I replied "I won't be having one for quite a few years, but I could borrow this one if you don't mind." She didn't say no, but I promised Mom and Dad I wouldn't come home with any children so I guess I should leave her with her mother.
At the Mashaka house, I ate fried fish for the first time. I'm talking a WHOLE fried fish, eyes and face and all. Fish are caught early in the morning, bought at the market by midday, and cooked by the afternoon. The fish was cooked with ugali (like very stiff grits) and chopped kale, and once I got over the fish staring at me as I ate it, it was wonderful. We stayed at the house awhile longer, where the other women and I sat outside and they had fun comparing arms and legs and eyes with the "mzungu", and trying to teach me how to count in Kiswahili.
As we left, John's aunt (Mama Mashaka) came up to greet me. I said "Shikamoo" (the greeting used to address someone older than you), and she grasped my hands in hers and said "Karibu" (welcome") over and over, one of the most genuine displays of hospitality I think I will ever encounter. This woman has next to nothing materially, yet she made sure I was welcome and well-fed in her home, and addressed me as an equal. I replied "Ahsante" (thank you) as much as I could, and we all shared a laugh as Perpetua tried to teach her how to say to me, "You are warmly welcome." It was comforting to know that someone as old and wise as Mama Mashaka had as much trouble trying to pronounce a new language as I do.
Today, Perpetua and I took the dalla-dalla to a building supply store to order materials for the volunteer house. I had never been on a dalla-dalla before, and nothing could have prepared me for it then. It was as though someone had taken a slightly larger version of my dad's Chevy Astro (which I affectionately call 'the creeper van') and crammed 30 people inside it and called it a bus. At each stop, just when I thought we couldn't possibly fit any more people inside the van, somehow we made 30 to 31, and 31 to 34. It's like an advanced game of Twister. There is a man that hangs off the side and jingles change in his hand to the people inside the bus, asking for payment (around 1,000TSH for every 5 or so miles; there isn't a sign that I can read yet.
Things I noticed today:
-When you sneeze, it isn't the custom to say "Bless you" (I was very surprised the first time I sneezed and no one said anything).
-Africans pick their noses in public and no one cares. I can't make this up.
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