Live from Kigoma

A little something tropical

2009-07-01T00:25:00.005+03:00

A Tropical boubou in fact.

These birds are responsible for one of the sounds I enjoy waking to the most. They have a number of calls including duets with other boubous. But the strangest call of all is the electrical sound caught in the clip below (listen carefully before the "bou"). Also, notice how quickly the colors change; the sun wastes no time rising in the tropics.

I have been offline for several weeks now and will be offline again for several more. But I am collecting stories, jotting them in notebooks and look forward to sharing them with you the first of August. Please check back then.

Thanks for continuing to visit Live from Kigoma. I am grateful to be able to share special moments with you here.

No artificial colors added to this message

2009-04-28T21:41:00.008+03:00

Since I have been home in the US on vacation over the past few weeks, I have been amazed by the number of acronyms I have and have not been eating.

MSG has been joined in the rank-and-vile by GMO, BGH and - according to the Ruby Red Grapefruit juice Lee bought last night - HFCS. I had to check the ingredients list to confirm my suspicion: yep, only sugar, no high-fructose corn syrup.

Since when was it acceptable to eat things that didn't have vowels?

In Kigoma, we don't so much think of food as acronyms. For one thing, vegetables have lots of vowels (nyanya = tomato). For another, the most likely acronym to touch our food is DDT, and it's best not to think about that.

Americans' obsession with uniform foods with impeccable complexions is gloriously lacking in Kigoma Market. Brown flecks add character, and most wash off. If necessary, squishy bits can be sliced away.

I have enjoyed pushing a cart through the aisles of US grocery stores and the sense of déjà vu experienced at most produce displays, like a horror film in which dozens of copies of someone appears and you're not sure which is the human and which the android clones. "Of the three dozen apples on display, each of which look completely identical, which is the real apple?," you may ponder.

Then a fine mist descends and you've forgotten why you've come to the market at all, suddenly reaching for an armful of waterlogged romaine.

I will return to Tanzania next week with foods squirrelled away in my suitcase. As always, I will miss the Pacific Northwest's BGH-free cheese and organic wines. But as for fruits and vegetables, I look forward to eating food that is a little less superficial - where the color of a tomato runs more than skin deep.

Just hold the DDT, please.

Road deconstruction

2009-02-12T08:45:00.003+03:00

And you thought your job was tough.

I recently heard the unmistakable hearkening of the end of the world: the sound of a flood and an earthquake all rolled into one. I ran to the window but the source had flown down Kibirizi Road too fast. All I saw was Stella staring at me with that “is the door locked?” sort of look.

So I returned to my business as usual and a bit later the sound came flooding back.

This time I made it to the window in time to see a pickup truck hauling down the road with two men standing in the back holding onto a big mess of rebar which they were dragging noisily behind them. The only reason I can think to drive multiple times down a road dragging rebar is to resurface it. And if you have seen Tanzania's roads in the wet season, you can understand the virtue of this.

But it was a good reminder for me, and perhaps a good reminder for all of us: when I next think my job is tough, at least I am not holding onto a bundle of quivering reinforcing bars while standing in the back of a pickup truck which is flying down the road at break-arm speed.

Unfathomable

2009-01-28T17:41:00.002+03:00

There is a topic I have avoided covering here due to my struggles to find the words to do so. The topic is one I first learned about through a vague story in a local paper, followed by sullen conversations with friends and colleagues to learn more - without wanting to learn too much.

While I have searched for the right words, the Economist wrote many last week regarding the ghastly killings of a highly marginalized and easily identifiable segment of Tanzania's human population: albinos. To view that article, click here. No login required.

As an aside, I recently heard of an albino who stole a cell-phone out of a man's hand and ran. The man wanted to chase the thief and recover his phone, but feared he would be linked with this sick underground trade, and decided to buy a new phone instead.

...but somebody's gotta do it

2009-01-23T17:59:00.003+03:00

My kitchen might qualify again under US health codes, but it hasn’t been easy.

There have been two recent bouts of waterlessness in my neighborhood which inspired challenging questions, such as: do I take a shower or flush the toilet or wash two sinks full of dishes? Because with one bucket of water - brought by a guy on a bicycle – I can't do all three.

Usually the dishes lose, and in that respect, the biomass lying-in-wait in my kitchen wins.

I know all about roaches. I know their infinite forms and varieties. I've seen them squished between bills dispensed by the ATM, scurrying inside a ball cap I removed from my head, hidden like Where's Waldo in more meals than I'd like remember, and once a tiny one was in a sealed package of bubblegum (figure that one out), proving their limitless ingenuity.

Just last night I let my cat play with an elephantine specimen which lumbered out of the shower drain. Stella has so few toys to play with.

So while I was not necessarily surprised that two species helped clean the dishes, I was surprised by their quantity – the sheer magnitude of their forces.

One species was long, thin and pinkish - somehow shrimp-like, but with wings. The other black-brown and pyknic, peppercornesque. Both now dead.

As men laid pipe on the lawn to fix the pump, I gathered my supplies: anti-bacterial soap, trash bucket and a large kitchen sponge I received as a birthday present last year (which I had saved for a special occasion such as this). I tried to divine assistance like the commercials where Mr. Clean jumps off the bottle and mops the floor in one, big S-shaped streak. But clearly I was going to be doing this alone. I rolled-up my sleeves and stood at the ready. When I heard air, then the water, gurgling in the pipes, I got to work.

I soon found the bugs' secret lair and annihilated it in a progrom I call "shock-and-eww." Confident about the thoroughness of my cleaning, I returned to food preparation at home. And when we lost water the next week, well, I repeated the whole process over again.

I sometimes forget that in Kigoma you're never alone. I walked into my kitchen the other night and discovered a noisome odor that could only be one thing: dinosaur poo. More specifically, the white, liquidy guano too often secreted in our attic by Monty, the non-pet resident monitor lizard (who hasn't paid a shilling toward rent).

So I checked the ceiling and there it was: the telltale white stain situated over the drying rack next to the sink, the dishes from which I had just stowed in the cupboards.

So what sponge does one use to clean monitor lizard poo off otherwise clean dishes? If I ever find the dish it landed on, I'll be sure to let you know.

Vegetarian gold

2009-01-14T18:16:00.001+03:00

For those who love adventures, the Kigoma market is a necessary destination. It is designed something like a pyramid inside, or perhaps as illogically nonlinear as a hieroglyphic: a network of tight, tortuous passageways flanked by stalls where people sell wares. They try to get your attention and you pause briefly to smile and make eye contact before returning to the task at hand: survival.

Wooden boards give way, roaches scurry and men dash toward you with weighty bags on their necks. Laundry dries over tomatoes, holes are notched into a pile of rice for a board game, and water drips from the edge of a tin roof which stops just over the walkway.

The placement of each foot requires the analysis of where a foot currently isn’t, the general direction you are trying to head and which dangers (nails, gaps in the platform, a stream of unidentifiable fluids) pose the highest threats.

Sometimes you choose wisely. And on other occasions, you hope for the best.

As with any labyrinth, each twist seems to take you further from your intended destination. But once you figure out the sequence of lefts and rights, you can find the heart of the market: replete with monstrous avocados, piles of passion fruits, pineapples dangling on strings and circular mounds of peas, which are sold by the handful, like abstract stipple art.

Sometimes, buried within this assortment a treasure can be found. The vegetarian’s equivalent of gold: massive carrots. Or rather, the assemblage of many carrots into one awe-inspiring mass.

24-karat gold? Try 24-carrot goldmine!

The transaction is quick. You slip the carrot into your bag and begin the odyssey out. Right then left then left then right… or was it right then left then right then right?

And what if a giant boulder seals-off the market’s exit before you escape? Of course that never happens, but it never seems totally out of the realm of possibilities, either - because in the Kigoma market, you are never quite sure what will happen next.

As for the other rule of adventure stories (falling in love with an eastern European or Soviet adversary), well, for now the carrots will do.

Frank Sinatra sings a new tune (again)

2009-01-05T18:31:00.002+03:00

It sometimes seems that nearly everything is possible in Tanzania.

A friend of mine recently needed to fly last-minute to Dar and had no money. We took her to the airport and I shook the guy’s hand and promised him money for the ticket by the afternoon if he put her on the morning flight.

He consented, and in the second after, I wondered where else a handshake can substitute a plane ticket.

But my housemates and I recently learned something else which, quite Frankly, we didn't see coming.

I took our cat Stella (nee Frank Sinatra) to Dar on a trip synchronized with her theoretical fertility, so that she could be spayed and we could avoid the radical genesis of inbred progeny, which seemed a given. But as it turns out, the cat we originally thought a he and later deemed a she is a he after all. At least for now.

Poor Frank Sinatra. So misunderstood.

I am sure showbiz is full of mistaken identities and (at least historically) genders, but for those of us in small town Kigoma, it has been entertaining.

As for Stella, well, he's now a little more tenor than base.

Rain, rain fly away

2008-12-07T06:06:00.001+03:00

Last weekend, Dar es Salaam was subjected to long, drizzly rains interspersed with cloudbursts which even drove an Oregonian like me to covered patios. Traffic moved at a snail's pace, each vehicle taking turns to cross the intermittent pools straddling the road. A cemetery was marked by a solitary cross rising above the waterline. A driveway snaking its way to a presumably well-off house looked like a river, eddies and all.

That night, after drying off, I sat on a friend's couch reading a book about adventures and misadventures of anthropologists and ecologists in Tanzania. I heard a faint flutter of sound behind me and turned to see 30-40 termites around the light I was reading by, a modest affair to be sure. Then I noticed termites flying around a safety light outside, looking remarkably like snow - climbing and falling - as they fluttered around the beam; rather apposite given the Holiday carols I was playing at the time.

As I returned to my book, something struck me. I had been hearing the sound of rain for thirty minutes or more, but as I looked at the termites outside, there was no sign of rain.

I turned the music down. What was that sound?

I did what many in Tanzania have done before me. I put my book down, ventured into the foyer and braced myself for the inevitable.

Hundreds, perhaps a thousand inch-long termites swarmed the back porch light, and many had made their way through the ill-fitted glass doors to the inside; termites swarmed in column inside and out.

I skittered around the storm to get up the staircase and switch-off my bedroom light, wanting to avoid a similar swarm there.

As I returned to my book, the drone of the termites subsided, and again I became aware of a new sound: this time of the pounding surf of the Indian Ocean.

Or so I hoped...

Finders keepers

2008-11-25T17:36:00.003+03:00

I became aware of this issue last night: click here for the conservation finance article, or here for the source article in the Washington Post, which notes (as a friend told me last night) that following a similar deal elsewhere, Hadzabe men were arrested for hunting the land on which their ancestors have hunted for perhaps tens of thousands of years.

If the UAE royal family is reading this: have a heart for the Hadzabe.

Striking not only twice, but twenty times

2008-11-23T18:06:00.004+03:00

It has been raining leopards and hyenas here lately (our version of cats and dogs). At one point last week, the lightning was so near that the thunder shook the ground beneath me, and cloud-to-cloud lightening coursed through the clouds above our office. Overall, it is an awesome and humbling experience, and not totally benign. I heard of two tragic cases last week in which lives were lost: one was a pair of young boys, apparently in town, the other two adults in a neighboring village.

What a pity that taking shelter under a tree can seem such a logical thing to do in a rainstorm.

It made me wonder, how many of the thunderbolts flying above end-up touching down? I found this at Wikipedia:

According to this analysis of NASA data, Kigoma is struck by about 20-30 bolts per square kilometer per year. Some of them from storms which move at breakneck pace toward the lake, while others hover and block the view of even the closest peninsula close across the bay. There are two forms: dry lightning (which hints of rain but never does) and wet lightening, the storms of which can pour.

Wet lightening or dry, I am usually inside when the storms hit, but I caught this dwindling storm last year and wanted to share the images with you:

The real power of a storm is naturally in its motion, which is difficult to render with still images, but unless you come visit me, this is probably the best I can do.

The latest generation

2008-11-07T12:34:00.000+03:00

When I invited friends to come to my house to listen to election coverage on my satellite radio, I had a mental picture of still-lifes seen in Truman-era daguerreotypes: sepia photos of children laying on the floor with chins on their fists, kicking their patent-leather shoes and listening to a radio twice their size.

But it is true what they say; during this election, something happened which could not have been imagined a generation ago: my cellphone rang.

You see, Tanzania has jumped generations in technology. While parts of the world went through twangy transitions between telegraph and telephone and between hand-held radios and mobile phones, Tanzania - like many parts of the world - skipped the landlines and went straight to cell towers.

While we listened to NPR's coverage, my Mom and my friend Rob were able to text me updated electoral counts and which states went to which candidate, and they called me when the election was made official.

So much for sepia photographs - we were communicating via satellite.

So as the US contemplates this election and the changes which have taken place over the generations, Tanzanians are talking about it via the latest generation of technology. And that's good news for everyone.

I believe!

2008-11-04T14:57:00.003+03:00

I tend to be skeptical about things that I don't experience firsthand. As it turns-out, this election day has shaken the very ground I stand on.

Literally.

At 12:53ish this morning, I slipped from sleepiness to consciousness when my mosquito net's frame tapped lightly against the wall. After that, there were two taps on the bed, followed by a soft bump which caused my headboard to hit the wall.

The tremor (or "temblor") has not been recorded by the USGS, but I believe in it all the same.

As for the earth-shaking events happening halfway around the world, I believe in those, too.

Sunset sunset burning bright

2008-10-29T17:17:00.001+03:00

Last night's sunset was a show stopper. It burned bright and fast, then bled into a more typical pastel palate.

I missed the chance to photograph the first phase - peach and pink - but I was able to snap these shots, which were taken within a surprisingly short period of time (perhaps 10-15 minutes).

Lovely lizards

2008-10-27T18:16:00.001+03:00

A friend came to get me today, to show me a monitor lizard hovering around the canteen where we eat lunch. The lizard was separated from us by a set of bars, which may be responsible for his sense of security; he let us get the best close-up look of a monitor I have had to date.

I do not have my camera with me today, but it made me think that I should share a couple photos taken earlier this year, of a few monitor lizards I saw in Katavi National Park.

This lizard climbed out of the water and onto a log as we were driving by. He posed perfectly for this profile shot and scaly close-ups.

This monitor was peeking out of a tree as we drove by. Can you spot it?

I affectionately call this photo "Dinosaurs in love." In truth, these late-Jurassic gems seemed more akin to the early animation of Godzilla than the agile creatures of Spielberg's Jurassic films. It was humorous watching them dance, with herky-jerky claymation movements: lean-on-left-foot, lean-on-right-foot, open-jaws, breathe-fire (well, almost).

With nothing on the immediate horizon to give away the scale, this scene seemed - at least through my camera lens - like watching giant dinosaurs dance in the distance.

Everything works out in the end

2008-10-23T10:13:00.008+03:00

This is an old entry, which I had meant to post at the end of August. It is equally relevant today.

I remember well what it was like back home to send an important document from one end of the country to the next. You put the document in a yellow envelope and seal it, and a guy in a yellow shirt comes to pick it up, put it in his yellow van and give it to another yellow-dressed person, who will ensure it gets to your destination by the specified time.

If at any point along the way you wonder where said document is, you can log onto a yellow website and see that your package was scanned into Collierville, TN at 10:43am, and that it weighs 1.0 lbs.

It all seems so easy!

So in August, I had a plane ticket which I needed for an upcoming flight (the original one shipped to me from the US never arrived, so another was issued and shipped to Dar es Salaam - approx. 800 miles from where I live).

A colleague of mine agreed to help send that ticket to me. The method: go to the airport, meet a stranger who was taking that day's flight to Kigoma, and ask that person to carry it for me.

They assured me that it was more reliable than a courier. And after all, couriers in the US are strangers, too.

I received a phone call on the appointed day. "She goes by the name of 'Mama,'" I was told, a moniker assigned to nearly every woman my age or older. "She has your number."

I sent a friend to the airport with a sign (I was all day in a workshop), hoping to get the ticket before Mama disappeared into the countryside. Somehow my friend did not cross paths with Mama, and I envisioned my plane ticket bumping its way down the road to Kasulu.

Then a mysterious tip: a woman in a white Land Rover (a common vehicle here) was in front of the bank, asking about my boss - whose name was on the envelope.

I ran. And once I arrived, I approached every white Land Rover I could find: "Excuse me, is there a Mama here?"

And finally I saw her. Exiting the market. Somehow I just knew. Maybe it's because she was wearing yellow.

"Mama?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

And soon we were hugging and I was holding the envelope in my sweaty hands.

My friends and I have a saying: in Tanzania, everything works out in the end. There may not be a website to track status, or a yellow van to chase, but the systems here generally work - and are often cheaper by comparison.

Just when you think there's no hope, you get a phone call, and a stranger helps make the impossible happen. It seems like a pretty good system to me.

Just in time

2008-10-13T18:16:00.002+03:00

I was in Oregon last month for a wonderful combination of work and play. When I left my family's home in the early morning hours, one of the last things I noticed was Orion hovering above and tipped on his side, as though frozen mid-stride - running somewhere, perhaps late for a plane as I was.

And when I returned last week, I looked to the sky to see if he was still running, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead Hercules was there, reclining on his back, sinking into the west - his season expiring - seemingly exhausted from several days of travel, sleeping upright and airline meals. I soon sank into a similar pose, this time in the east. It felt good to be back.

Now, one week later, a blanket of clouds has been pulled over the constellations holding court above - the gods and demigods hidden from view, but still there, somewhere.

The rainy season has begun. And with it, the sky is disappearing, bugs are reappearing, orange blossoms are in bloom and fragrances abound.

This is a magical time of year in Kigoma, complete with fanfare (cicadas by day and fruit bats by night). Nature seems to be rejoicing the return of the rains; I am excited for their return, too.

When an elephant meets a hippo

2008-08-31T12:09:00.011+03:00

We spotted an elephant on the bank of a river - a river which coursed through a plain I had seen at the beginning of the rainy season the year before (above).

Then the elephant began to cross the river. "He's in for a surprise," I said, thinking of the crevice he would reach in the middle.

He was up to his knees.

He was up to his shoulders.

And soon, the river rippled over him.

But before he could reach the crevice, the elephant met a very different kind of surprise: somewhere below the surface, a hippo lay sleeping – gathering his energy to graze and fight and make a mess at night.

The hippo opened his mouth wide - less of a yawn than a threat display - and vocalized how he felt about being wakened.

But the elephant knows he has no natural predators - except humans, and only then with ammunition - and he wasn't spooked by the display. He trumpeted with his trunk, flapped his ears wide and made figure-eights with his tusks.

The hippo groaned and retreated, slipping under the currents before the confrontation escalated.

The elephant was nonplussed. He didn't look back - no scanning from side to side - he just continued across. That is, until his disappeared altogether.

"Can an elephant really swim?" I wondered. Or rather, is it really possible for an elephant to sink?

Then a trunk broke the surface, gathering air, and the elephant's head soon followed.

He stepped-up on the other end of the crevice and, with all his vegetarian might, pulled his body out of the water. His trunk soared and he announced his arrival to those on the other side.

And soon, he arrived: clean, cool and in control. Ready to take-on whomever he met on the other side.

Breaking news about Frank Sinatra

2008-08-11T18:04:00.002+03:00

My housemate and I recently found a motherless, diarrhea-laden kitten who stole our hearts. We took him home, washed him and named him Frank Sinatra (because of his blue, blue eyes).

The name provided seemingly endless inevitable but nonetheless enjoyable clichés: he found us on the patio of a friends' house - a real "Stranger in the Night" who seemed to "Only Have Eyes for Us." He gave us a look which said: "I've Got You Under My Skin," and sure enough, we adopted him without much further debate. As they say, Fools Rush In.

Did I mention he enjoys Dancing Cheek to Cheek?

But after subsequent bathing and a couple weeks of growing around-the-clock, Frank Sinatra appears to be less of a Guy than a Doll. Not only that, but one of his eyes is turning green and (Sinatra fans may wish to stop reading here) he shows no interest in self-grooming at all.

So now we are trying to find a new name which fits. We flirted with Ginger Rodgers, because she loves dancing (or at least sliding across the floor). We also considered Nancy Sinatra, but she doesn't really seem the boots-were-made-for-walking type.

Name suggestions are encouraged. At the end of the day, she's high-maintenance but oh-so-lovable (some would say, "So Embraceable"), and no matter what we call her, They Can't Take that Away from Her.

Hot topic

2008-07-27T11:24:00.000+03:00

Energy plans often leave me stumped

I was recently walking home from work when I looked-up to see that my walk had become a little sunnier. The trees lining the road leading to the post office had been chopped down in the name of road expansion; women were hacking the stumps to bits with axes and machetes, stumps elsewhere smoldered to make charcoal, and women walked into the distance with bundles of wood on their heads.

With those trees gone, where will people go to get wood next? This morning – when I woke to the sound of a woman pulling branches out of a tree in my backyard – I may have been given an answer.

Before catching a flight to the US recently, a friend of mine stopped by my house to ask a few questions about his destination. He had fascinating and insightful questions, including whether there are roads in the US like the wavy dirt road to Lugufu (a local refugee camp). I assured him that there are roads like that in the US, but to give him a better sense, I showed him photos I had taken back home. One was of a long, empty highway headed in the direction of Crater Lake. “There is no dust on the road,” he said, “no garbage. Is that primary forest?” “Yes,” I said. “Here, people would use a road like that to get firewood,” he told me, “they would cut down all the trees.”

One challenge is that while people need trees to stabilize watersheds and protect soils (not to mention for carbon sequestration), they also need wood to cook dinner at night. And the short-term need to put dinner on the table naturally trumps long-term concerns. Forests in the Northeastern US once shared a similar fate.

I have often pondered what will happen when the world's oil runs out, even while sitting behind the steering wheel of an idling vehicle. In a similar way, people here must see fewer trees and furl their brows at the thought that they will have to walk farther to get their wood – and know that one day those resources may be ashes, too.

Tanzania County Fair

2008-07-15T08:17:00.000+03:00

It was just like any other July 4th, really, except that it was on July 5th.

This year a few friends and I celebrated the 4th of July at the US Embassy. Stepping through the metal detectors and out into the hot air of Dar es Salaam, it felt oddly like we had been transported to our own personal county fair. Concrete planters were painted with American flags, tall pillars were decorated with blue stars, and in the distance a woman announced that she needed more participants over the age of thirteen for the pie-eating contest.

I felt like I had been blown halfway around the world in a matter of seconds.

We rounded the bend. A dunk-tank sat unused. There was a line for overpriced hamburgers which passed a table selling cheap beer. Little flags were handed to visitors as they arrived - my Swiss friend got the last one.

And then: the fireworks. To the tune of "I'm Proud to be an American."

Boom. Pop. Sizzle.

It was good to be in America on the 4th again, even if it wasn't really America, and it wasn't really the 4th.

Star-spangled spider

2008-07-15T08:10:00.000+03:00

This not-so-little critter slept on the balcony outside the room I occupied while in Dar over the July 4th weekend.

Friends told me she was harmless, but I bolted and locked the door just in case.

Ants in my pants

2008-07-10T19:43:00.001+03:00

Siafu stand guard while their colony is in transit

I made the mistake of admiring these ants recently; the mistake was that I did so before joining a prayer circle.

I joined hands and bowed my head. But before I could begin praying, I found that I was being preyed upon.

Three siafu ants (apparently a sacrilegious bunch) chomped into different parts of my left leg at the same time; perhaps a coincidence, but I have heard they communicate via chemical signals and attack their prey in a simultaneous shock-and-awch manner.

But I had bigger problems on my hands, or rather, my leg. One siafu was headed up my leg toward what I considered dangerous territory.

You see, I have taken meditation classes, which I felt applied to this moment and more generally to prayer. They say the deepest meditation is done through discomfort, joint pain, loud sirens, etc. They teach you to meditate through the pain. But those people haven't met siafu ants.

I politely rubbed my legs together. My hand instinctively veered toward my inner thigh, creating distress for the elderly gentleman with whom I was holding hands. I flinched, but I didn't break hands. Instead I chemically communicated with the Pastor, who wrapped-up the prayer - allowing me to spin in circles while slapping my thigh.

My only hope is that someone said a prayer for the ants. They won't be praying or preying again for a while.

In a faroff land

2008-07-04T16:58:00.008+03:00

Mount Urugulu

Today is the last day of my Kiswahili language program. I spent the afternoon session telling a story and trying to incorporate a variety of the vocab and tenses I have learned.

This story is inspired by three things: the mountain near the campus, the large baobab trees clustered around our sleeping quarters and, apparently, prolonged solitude.

"Upo katika kipindi kingine, kulikuwa mlima mrefu ajabu. Kilele cha mlima hakikuonekana kwa sababu mawingu mengi. Niliamua kupanda mlima ili nione juu ya huo.

In another time, there was a marvelously tall mountain. The peak did not appear because there were clouds. I decided to climb the mountain in order to see the top of it.

Kupanda kulikuwa kugumu, kwa sababu kulikuwa na matope mengi ingawa jua lilikuwa kali. Usiku ule, nilipika chakula juu ya moto, lakini pepo ulivuma kwa kasi na moto ulikufa mara nyingi. Nikaenda kulala na njaa na chini ya mti. Nikalala vibaya, kwa maana kulinyesha nusu usiku, na suati za pori ilikuwa kubwa sana.

The climbing was difficult, because there was much mud even though the sun was fierce. That night, I cooked food over a fire, but the wind blew with high speed and the fire died many times. I went to bed hungry and under a tree. I slept poorly, because it rained half the night and the sounds of the forest were very loud.

Asubuhi ijayo, nilipanda tena na kwa bidii. Jua lilikuwa kali, lakini niliendelea. Halafu, nikafika mawinguni. Niliweka fungu la wingu mfukoni la kumpa rafiki yangu.

The next morning, I climbed again and with effort. The sun was fierce, but I continued. Then I reached the clouds. I put a piece of cloud in my pocket to give to my friend.

Halafu niliendelea tena. Ilikuwa giza, kwa sababu mawingu yalikuwa mapana sana. Kwenda mbele ilikuwa vigumu sana. Nilienda kushoto kidogo, halafu kulia kidogo na labda kuzunguka maduara, lakini nikaendelea kupanda.

Then I continued again. It was dark because the clouds were very thick. Going forward was very difficult. I went a little left, then a little right and maybe around in circles, but I continued climbing.

Wakati ulipita. Majani yalianguka kutoka mitini. Halafu, nikaliona jua tena, baada ya kupanda juu ya mawingu. Niliwaona ndege na nilianza kuimba na hao.

The time passed. Leaves fell from the trees. Then, I saw the sun again, after I climbed above the clouds. I saw birds and I sang with them.

Ndege waliruka kaskazi na niliwafuata. Waliniongoza mpaka jiti refu ajabu na kama upana wa tembo. Jiti lilikuwa na matunda mengi. Nilipata majani ya jiti na nikaweka hayo mfukoni pamoja na wingu. Udongo ulikuwa kama mchanga. Nilitumia kijiti na kuandikia jina la rafiki yangu katika udongo. Niliketi pale na nikala matunda matatu. Nikajiambia nitataka kumtumia rafiki hadithi hii.

The birds flew north and I followed. They led me to a giant and wonderfully tall tree [which was] wide like an elephant. The tree had many fruits. I took leaves of the tree and put them in my pocket together with the cloud. The dirt was like sand. I used a stick and wrote my friend’s name in the dirt. I sat there and ate three fruits. I told myself I needed to tell my friend this story.

Kijiti kilachwa na mimi, na udongo pia. Lakini jina lilikaa moyoni.

The stick was left by me, and the dirt, too. But the name resides in my heart.

Hata leo, mimi hurudi pale."

Even today, I return there.

Baobab tree

The mountain shows its face

Not exactly Charlotte

2008-07-03T22:53:00.007+03:00

No really, you can have the tree

I thought the above spider was remarkable and strange as it dangled from a tree. I had a strong zoom on my camera. We were the perfect distance, really.

Last week, I was studying outside and heard a loud, short bird call, unlike any I had heard before. I set down my books and headed to the tree where it was perched. The bird was near the top of the tree, it's underside camouflaged with the tree's leaves, even with the light shinning through them. I needed a better angle.

I backed-up, but other trees blocked my view. I tried to spot it from below again, but there were too many branches in the way. I decided to circle the tree one last time, head toward the sky, with nothing but birds on my mind.

Then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. A spider's web right in the face, stuck to my hair, trailing down my sweater.

As I picked and pulled at strands, I began to wonder whether I had collected the web alone, and not perhaps a spider along with it. Then I noticed him: a foreboding spider like the one above. Perched on my shoulder, tapping a leg and wondering why I had wrecked his web.

Suffice it to say, the conversation didn't last long. Pretty soon he was airborne and I was nearly airborne myself.

I have circled a couple trees since then looking for birds, but now I look to see what is in front of me, too. I am guessing the spiders are keeping an eye out for me as well.

Forever and ever (amen)

2008-07-03T22:40:00.001+03:00

Swahili hymnal

“What does one wear to a Maasai wedding?” I asked the other morning, trying to picture the day ahead.

The idea of a Maasai wedding was full of intrigue for me. A friend told me that cattle and chicken would be blessed at the end of the marriage, thereby bringing a higher price for them at auction; another led me to believe that cows’ blood and milk would be served. I was writhing in anticipation.

But the one I attended was different. No cows’ blood, only Christ’s blood.

A white short-bed truck arrived with Maasai singing in the back. Behind the truck was a four-wheel drive vehicle containing the bride and groom, both of whom were carried into the church and seated adjacent to the altar.

“Is she wearing a wig?” a man asked as we peered through the cinder-block windows. Apparently the minister – who is American – threatened not to marry her if she wore a wig. “He likes to keep things traditional,” the man explained to me.

But I became confused as to which tradition they were trying to preserve. Attending a service led by an American, reading from my Swahili hymnal, taking communion, commenting on how white the bride’s dress was: it just didn’t feel Maasai enough for me. Where was the ceremonial necklace?

“Does the church have a stance on the dowry system?” I asked another minister, knowing the bride had been purchased for twelve cows, which seemed more offensive than whether the bride wore a wig or not. “I think the church tries to stay out of local customs,” he told me.

But I wasn’t placated. I was torn between two things: wanting to know that Maasai traditions are able to coexist with German ones, and yet wanting to believe that Maasai traditions which counter basic human rights (i.e. the dowry system, female circumcision) are no longer practiced. And while my logic seems straightforward, it is the same logic invoked by many other well-meaning people. The fallacy that my strongly-held beliefs should be imposed elsewhere.

I needed to talk with someone about this, so I sat down privately with the minister tonight. I explained my conflicted feelings and asked about how the church incorporates Maasai culture into its services. His face lit up. “I was as disappointed as you were,” he said referring to the wedding. He expressed concern that people may think that because they are getting married in a church they need to have a “modern wedding,” with make-up and wigs and mosquito netting around the bride's face. He wants to ensure that Maasai culture continues to thrive in local churches - a tall order, but I am hopeful he can accomplish this.

He also told a story: a few days ago he was walking in a village and was called over to attend a ceremony. It was a coming of age ceremony for young girls. “As many cattle are slaughtered now as ever, so the grandma’s are happy,” he explained, “but they don’t circumcise the girls anymore. That’s a decision they made as a congregation. We just advised them.”

And whether it’s right or not, I feel better knowing this, too.

So what does one wear to a [Lutheran] Maasai wedding?

If you’re me: a button-up shirt and the cleanest pair of trousers you can find.
If you’re the choir: beautiful purple and blue fabrics with long beaded earrings and heavy jewelry with jangly bits.
And if you’re the bride: a white dress and veil – and yes, a wig. Because it’s not up to us to decide how she should spend her wedding day.