Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Shaking hands and kissing babies
Okay, so I haven't kissed any babies, but I do feel like a politician. I went to the Catholic church in town with my hosts for Christmas, and introduced myself to the congregation both at midnight mass and the next morning. After mass I shook a lot of hands and had lunch at the preacher's house. Not to mention donating some money for a children's celebration at the church. I always feel like I'm on the spot in these situations: I need to make a lot of small talk and make a good impression, because these are people who could help me out in the future. It's exhausting. But hopefully it will pay off in the end.
Also, I heard "Jingle Bells" on Radio Tanzania last night. It made me happy.
Also, I heard "Jingle Bells" on Radio Tanzania last night. It made me happy.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The art of being a guest
Here in Tanzania, the art of being a guest is the art of eating. At breakfast you're served three slices of bread, three hard-boiled eggs, popcorn, sweet milk tea, and a variety of fruits. You're pleasantly full at the end, having left one egg uneaten. Then you go to church, and you're invited to eat in the preacher's house after the meal. Now you're very full. But you return to the house your staying at, and two hours later, you're served lunch. And then that evening, there's dinner. And people always look so disappointed when they say "ongeza" (take more) and you respond "Nimeshiba" (I'm full).
The art of being a guest is also the art of being shown around. It's polite, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying after a while. You go to the market to buy things, happy to have reached it by yourself for the first time. But there's a seller at the market who heard you introduce yourself at the church the previous night, and wants to help you around the market and the stores in town. You don't know exactly what you want at the market, so you feel like you're probably getting on her nerves being so indecisive. But you're also bad at being assertive, saying "really I'm fine by myself," and going off to shop alone as you had originally hoped and planned. It sucks feeling like a small child all the time.
The art of being a guest is the art of being served. Unfortunately, this may also mean you have nothing to do. Outside the house, people are cooking, washing dishes, cutting vegetables. You're sitting on the couch in silence with your host. You know that if you offer to help, they'll turn you done. But you're at a loss for something to do with your time.
The art of being a guest is the art of shaking a lot of hands, making a lot of small talk, sitting through awkward silences without feeling too awkward. It's an art where life takes less effort and you don't have to worry about heating water for your morning shower, sweeping your floors, or lighting the charcoal stove for your next meal. But it's also an art where, because everything is done for you, you don't know what to do with yourself and you start to feel incompetent. Often it's better to be lost, exhausted, and overwhelmed than to be sitting bored and very full with absolute nothing to challenge you. It's nice being a guest every now and then. But after being here three months, and being a guest nearly every day of those months, I'm ready to stand on my own and stop being served all the time.
The art of being a guest is also the art of being shown around. It's polite, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying after a while. You go to the market to buy things, happy to have reached it by yourself for the first time. But there's a seller at the market who heard you introduce yourself at the church the previous night, and wants to help you around the market and the stores in town. You don't know exactly what you want at the market, so you feel like you're probably getting on her nerves being so indecisive. But you're also bad at being assertive, saying "really I'm fine by myself," and going off to shop alone as you had originally hoped and planned. It sucks feeling like a small child all the time.
The art of being a guest is the art of being served. Unfortunately, this may also mean you have nothing to do. Outside the house, people are cooking, washing dishes, cutting vegetables. You're sitting on the couch in silence with your host. You know that if you offer to help, they'll turn you done. But you're at a loss for something to do with your time.
The art of being a guest is the art of shaking a lot of hands, making a lot of small talk, sitting through awkward silences without feeling too awkward. It's an art where life takes less effort and you don't have to worry about heating water for your morning shower, sweeping your floors, or lighting the charcoal stove for your next meal. But it's also an art where, because everything is done for you, you don't know what to do with yourself and you start to feel incompetent. Often it's better to be lost, exhausted, and overwhelmed than to be sitting bored and very full with absolute nothing to challenge you. It's nice being a guest every now and then. But after being here three months, and being a guest nearly every day of those months, I'm ready to stand on my own and stop being served all the time.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Kupika ni kazi! (Cooking is work!)
I'm finally learning to cook for myself. This may sound amusing given that I had no problems cooking in America, and in fact I was confident about my cooking abilities here until I actually tried cooking. Things that differ between Tanzanian and American cooking:
-stoves. I use kerosene if I'm in a hurry, but most of the time I use the cheaper and more common charcoal stove. It takes time. First you have to break up the charcoal into small enough pieces and put it in the stove, turning your hands a pleasant black color. Then you put some pieces of wood on top, douse the whole thing in kerosene, light it with a match, and wait. After five or ten minutes it stops smoking and can be used without imparting that pleasant charcoal taste to your food.
-"chagua" (to choose). Any dry goods have to be picked through for rocks before use. You put the rice on a wide, flat basket, pick out the rocks, shake it to move everything around, pick out more rocks, and continue until the chances of hearing a crunching sound as you eat your rice are reasonably low. This is also done with beans, dried peas, lentils, chickpeas . . .
-oil and salt. The main Tanzanian spices. Rice is cooked with oil and salt, as is pasta. Originally I planned to reduce my oil and salt intake as soon as I started cooking for myself; unfortunately, by now I've gotten used to it. And the good thing about cooking rice with oil and salt is that it tastes good even if you have nothing to eat with it.
-no counters. Food prep is generally done while sitting on a small bench, with the pot of food on the ground. Tanzanians don't use cutting boards, though this is one American habit I plan to retain for fear of cutting myself.
-no handles on the pots (I use small cloths to grip them; a lot of people have hands of leather and use their hands)
-no fridge. Throw out the extra food, or, better yet, store it in a hot pot and boil before eating again the next day.
-stoves. I use kerosene if I'm in a hurry, but most of the time I use the cheaper and more common charcoal stove. It takes time. First you have to break up the charcoal into small enough pieces and put it in the stove, turning your hands a pleasant black color. Then you put some pieces of wood on top, douse the whole thing in kerosene, light it with a match, and wait. After five or ten minutes it stops smoking and can be used without imparting that pleasant charcoal taste to your food.
-"chagua" (to choose). Any dry goods have to be picked through for rocks before use. You put the rice on a wide, flat basket, pick out the rocks, shake it to move everything around, pick out more rocks, and continue until the chances of hearing a crunching sound as you eat your rice are reasonably low. This is also done with beans, dried peas, lentils, chickpeas . . .
-oil and salt. The main Tanzanian spices. Rice is cooked with oil and salt, as is pasta. Originally I planned to reduce my oil and salt intake as soon as I started cooking for myself; unfortunately, by now I've gotten used to it. And the good thing about cooking rice with oil and salt is that it tastes good even if you have nothing to eat with it.
-no counters. Food prep is generally done while sitting on a small bench, with the pot of food on the ground. Tanzanians don't use cutting boards, though this is one American habit I plan to retain for fear of cutting myself.
-no handles on the pots (I use small cloths to grip them; a lot of people have hands of leather and use their hands)
-no fridge. Throw out the extra food, or, better yet, store it in a hot pot and boil before eating again the next day.
Church
On Sunday i went to the Pentecostal church in the village. As I walked into the tin-roofed mud building with pink flowers on the walls, I felt like I had stepped into the American South in the 1930s. The Pentecostals here are all about music, and about half the service was singing, accompanied by a drum, two guitars, a rattle made from circular pieces of metal hanging on nails from a small cross, and a horseshoe-shaped piece of metal hit with a metal rod to make a sound like a bell. The music and enthusiastic singing was quite beautiful. The preaching was very emotional and intense compared to the more sedate Catholic service I went to last week, but the preacher was nice and introduced me to the congregation (this sort of thing happens often enough that I've stopped being embarassed by it).
So, why all the sudden going to church? Well, mostly because people want to take me. I previously stated that there are two churches in the village; actually, there are at least three. I've now been to all of them and met all the preachers, not to mention the Catholic monks and nuns (one of which is the only other white person in the village!--he's a Swiss monk who must be at least 70). They're generally friendly and they're good people to know in a place where religion has such an influence. Plus, it's always fun to answer the religion question (well, my father's Catholic, sort of, my mother's Jewish . . .).
So, why all the sudden going to church? Well, mostly because people want to take me. I previously stated that there are two churches in the village; actually, there are at least three. I've now been to all of them and met all the preachers, not to mention the Catholic monks and nuns (one of which is the only other white person in the village!--he's a Swiss monk who must be at least 70). They're generally friendly and they're good people to know in a place where religion has such an influence. Plus, it's always fun to answer the religion question (well, my father's Catholic, sort of, my mother's Jewish . . .).
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Pictures
Also, I may have forgotten to post this here: pictures are at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kgtanzania
Transportation
Transportation is a problem here. To get to the nearest town, I have to take a land-rover filled with up to 17 people. It moves slowly and bumpily over the dirt roads. The roof is loaded with everything from spare tires to bags of grain to peoples' purchases from town. And so far, we've had to stop on nearly every trip I've taken to change a flat tire.
I wouldn't say it's particularly dangerous, because we drive slowly. We have to. The road is fortunately dry right now, but it's rocky and bumpy. When it starts raining harder, we'll be struggling through mud and puddles.
In the U.S., you don't really think too much about going to town. Here, I have to remember to buy all the things that aren't available in the village: carrots, green peppers, oranges, plastic buckets, pitchers . . . either we don't have them or they're more expensive due to the transportation costs. Then I need time to use a computer, to go to the bank, to fax forms to the Peace Corps. All between our arrival in town at 11 am and our departure at 4 pm. It can be done, but it's hectic. And it really reminds you that you are living in a small town, in a rural area, when you go to the local market for tomatoes and they tell you you'll have to return in the evening after the truck from town arrives.
I wouldn't say it's particularly dangerous, because we drive slowly. We have to. The road is fortunately dry right now, but it's rocky and bumpy. When it starts raining harder, we'll be struggling through mud and puddles.
In the U.S., you don't really think too much about going to town. Here, I have to remember to buy all the things that aren't available in the village: carrots, green peppers, oranges, plastic buckets, pitchers . . . either we don't have them or they're more expensive due to the transportation costs. Then I need time to use a computer, to go to the bank, to fax forms to the Peace Corps. All between our arrival in town at 11 am and our departure at 4 pm. It can be done, but it's hectic. And it really reminds you that you are living in a small town, in a rural area, when you go to the local market for tomatoes and they tell you you'll have to return in the evening after the truck from town arrives.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Some stories
A few stories from my first week at site:
-being near Ngorongoro crater, I was afraid there would be tourists everywhere. Actually I have yet to see another white person in my village. And the children there are definitely excited to see me. There's a certain house that I walk by on the way to the stores in the village, and every time I walk past it, a crowd of five children comes running toward me, calling "Shikamoo!" (a respectful greeting for elders). Then they take my hand and follow me into the village, occasionally rubbing my arm to see what white skin feels like, and looking at me with these big, curious smiles.
-everyone I've met speaks Kiswahili, but there's also a local language called Kiiraqw or Kimbulu. It's very guttural and sounds a lot like Arabic. I know a few of the greetings; every time I use them, people laugh and shake my hand.
-for the first time in my life, I have my own house. Although it often feels more like common properties. People are always knocking on the door, calling "Hodi?" (basically "Can I come in?"), or just walking in to see where I am. Most of the time this doesn't bother me; it's nice to have the company, and I'm just as welcome to "Hodi?" at their house as they are at mine. And will probably be given tea if I do. It does make it hard to learn things like cooking, though, as if I do something even a little wrong they'll ask to help me and will end up simply cooking for me.
-did you know that you can slaughter a chicken for dinner, have it sit in a cabinet all night, fry the leftovers in oil at lunch, boil the leftovers from that for dinner, and not get sick? (so far, knock on wood). The things you learn when you don't have a fridge. And I haven't slaughtered a chicken, but I have watched and plucked some feathers. If it were my own choice, I would probably be basically vegetarian here, but people keep cooking for me and I figure if I am going to eat meat, I shouldn't mind seeing it prepared.
-my house had almost nothing when I moved in--only a few buckets, a charcoal stove, a kerosene stove, a kerosene lamp, and some random furniture (fortunately including a bed and table). People have been awesome about lending things to me, from flour for ugali to pots and cooking implements. It's helping, but right now things still feel very temporary and disorganized. I did hang a map of the world, some pictures from home, and periodic table on my living room wall. So now I feel a bit settled in and I have something to point to when guests ask "where exactly in America are you from?"
-being near Ngorongoro crater, I was afraid there would be tourists everywhere. Actually I have yet to see another white person in my village. And the children there are definitely excited to see me. There's a certain house that I walk by on the way to the stores in the village, and every time I walk past it, a crowd of five children comes running toward me, calling "Shikamoo!" (a respectful greeting for elders). Then they take my hand and follow me into the village, occasionally rubbing my arm to see what white skin feels like, and looking at me with these big, curious smiles.
-everyone I've met speaks Kiswahili, but there's also a local language called Kiiraqw or Kimbulu. It's very guttural and sounds a lot like Arabic. I know a few of the greetings; every time I use them, people laugh and shake my hand.
-for the first time in my life, I have my own house. Although it often feels more like common properties. People are always knocking on the door, calling "Hodi?" (basically "Can I come in?"), or just walking in to see where I am. Most of the time this doesn't bother me; it's nice to have the company, and I'm just as welcome to "Hodi?" at their house as they are at mine. And will probably be given tea if I do. It does make it hard to learn things like cooking, though, as if I do something even a little wrong they'll ask to help me and will end up simply cooking for me.
-did you know that you can slaughter a chicken for dinner, have it sit in a cabinet all night, fry the leftovers in oil at lunch, boil the leftovers from that for dinner, and not get sick? (so far, knock on wood). The things you learn when you don't have a fridge. And I haven't slaughtered a chicken, but I have watched and plucked some feathers. If it were my own choice, I would probably be basically vegetarian here, but people keep cooking for me and I figure if I am going to eat meat, I shouldn't mind seeing it prepared.
-my house had almost nothing when I moved in--only a few buckets, a charcoal stove, a kerosene stove, a kerosene lamp, and some random furniture (fortunately including a bed and table). People have been awesome about lending things to me, from flour for ugali to pots and cooking implements. It's helping, but right now things still feel very temporary and disorganized. I did hang a map of the world, some pictures from home, and periodic table on my living room wall. So now I feel a bit settled in and I have something to point to when guests ask "where exactly in America are you from?"
Of cattle and cellphones
I've been at my site for almost a week now. A quick description of my village:
Sometimes I feel like I'm in Montana. Other times I feel like I've just stepped out of a Peace Corps brochure. There are grassy, rolling plains with grazing cattle being herded by small boys. There are mountains in the distance. There are mud huts decorated with white chalk and roofed with thatch, farmers who will deliver you fresh milk in plastic water bottles, donkeys peering in your window. If you request chicken for lunch, a farmer will bring you a live chicken to kill. If you have leftovers from dinner, you store them in a cabinet overnight and boil them before eating them in the morning. Cooking is done with charcoal or kerosene, clothes are washed by hand, water is fetched at one of the faucets outside and carried to houses each morning.
But I haven't stepped back in time five hundred years-the village is modernizing rapidly. Many people have cellphones, which they charge for 300 shillings at a local store. I drank tea in a mud house that had solar-powered light bulbs. Most of the people in the village are Christian, in fact very religious Christians, and there's a Lutheran church and a Catholic mission in the village. There's a computer at the mission as well. No working computers at my school yet, but my headmaster has one that he's trying to run off of solar power. And we do have science labs with equipment and a small library.
Sometimes I feel like I'm in Montana. Other times I feel like I've just stepped out of a Peace Corps brochure. There are grassy, rolling plains with grazing cattle being herded by small boys. There are mountains in the distance. There are mud huts decorated with white chalk and roofed with thatch, farmers who will deliver you fresh milk in plastic water bottles, donkeys peering in your window. If you request chicken for lunch, a farmer will bring you a live chicken to kill. If you have leftovers from dinner, you store them in a cabinet overnight and boil them before eating them in the morning. Cooking is done with charcoal or kerosene, clothes are washed by hand, water is fetched at one of the faucets outside and carried to houses each morning.
But I haven't stepped back in time five hundred years-the village is modernizing rapidly. Many people have cellphones, which they charge for 300 shillings at a local store. I drank tea in a mud house that had solar-powered light bulbs. Most of the people in the village are Christian, in fact very religious Christians, and there's a Lutheran church and a Catholic mission in the village. There's a computer at the mission as well. No working computers at my school yet, but my headmaster has one that he's trying to run off of solar power. And we do have science labs with equipment and a small library.
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