Com- Posting

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This project has been a long time in coming for our family (especially since we’ve allowed ourselves to be called “gardeners” for the past few years)– building our first compost pile. We’ve been hearing the praises for this stuff far too long without getting up the gumption to go and make it ourselves.

We’ve started a few half-hearted piles in the past: when we were keeping a garden at Monte and Beth’s house I would pile all of the yard trash up in a little opening behind their tool shed. Over the course of 2 years it grew into quite a heap. The problem was I literally threw all of the yard trash in there: broken tool handles, busted buckets, plastic bags (from the bags of store-bought compost I used since I couldn’t wait to make my own). The pile was basically a trash pit that I jokingly referred to as compost. It ended up being an eye-sore to Monte and Beth’s backyard… and I’m sure Monte has recently had to clean it out.

When we first got into our house here in Mtwara we made another failed attempt. We would collect all of our kitchen scraps– both pre-meal and after meal– and throw them into one big pile in the backyard. Not a well balanced pile. The nitrogen content of that little pile must have been through the roof and after a few months, all we really had was  a slimy, stinky mess that attracted some of the most unsavory of visitors to our backyard. Had to stop making that “compost”.

So, inspired by our training in Lesotho and convinced that compost is the indeed the most beneficial fertilizer for rural farmers, we decided to give it an honest effort and build a legitimate, well-rounded, proportionally correct compost pile. We started collecting the necessary materials for the pile in mid October and by early December, finally had enough of the 3 main ingredients to start: greens, browns, and manure.

Our biggest obstacle by far were the greens. This component includes almost anything that was cut when green. The dry season is just coming to an end and you can imagine the scarcity of green grasses after 4 months of little to no rain at all. What the cows couldn’t eat, the sun withered away, leaving nothing for us to collect. Every morning Johnny, a friend from town, would come to our house, grab a “slasher” and two gunny sacs and go out in search of greens. It took him almost a month to find all that we needed.

The brown components were easily available– crop residues from last season, fallen leaves, pruned bushes, and wood shavings from our local carpenters shop.

And the manure came from a friend down the street who keeps a few cows. We got (15) 50 kilo bags of manure from her which were carried from her cow pens to our backyard (about 1/2 mile walk).

Having collected all of our components, we decided to start early one Friday morning to get this pile built. Our aim was a 2m x 2m x 2m compost pile using the following layering: 20cm brown/woody, 20 cm greens, 100 kilos cow manure. We would repeat these layers, constantly dousing the pile in water, until we reached 2 meters in height.

The building of the pile was quite a spectacle to behold. Anytime you mix 700 kilos of cow manure, nearly 400 liters of water, and 5 men in  98 degree weather, you’re bound to end up with a mess. And a mess it was.

We started at 8:00 in the morning and put our last few buckets of water on the pile at 6:00 pm. We never quite made it to 2 meters in height– with the compression of the water and manure it ended being closer to 1.5. But when it was done, it was (to us) a thing of beauty.

Since we built the pile along the fence that runs parallel to the main road, it attracted a lot of attention from the passing traffic. People on bikes would stop and stare, children would point and laugh, and vehicles would stop and get the low down on why we were building this grass and manure fort. But very few of those who stopped knew anything about fertilizer made from decomposing materials. And for us, that was exciting. If this pile turns out well, getting to share with people who have never been exposed to composting is an exciting prospect– especially when it can make such dramatic differences in their annual yields.

From here the pile will be turned every three days (the first turn took me 5 hours) for the first 3 turns, then every 10 days for the next 5 turns. Turning allows the pile to mix it’s layers, cool down, and incorporates oxygen back into the system. It will then sit  and cure for another 4 months, ready for use in early May. It’s definitely an experiment in delayed gratification. But living in a culture where planning for the future is nearly taboo, I think it will be healthy practice for us all.

We were pretty excited to finish building the pile at the end of the day. But for me, the most rewarding moment of the day came about 3/4 of the way through our work when a mother and her daughter passed by hand in hand. Seeing us all there working, soaked in sweat, covered in mud, and reeking of manure, she bent over and told her daughter in Swahili,

“This is how our relationship with Wazungu should be. We should work together. And no one should be better than anyone else.”

While our life here isn’t yet a perfect example of that kind of reciprocal relationship… I couldn’t agree more.

And if 10 hours of hard labor with our Tanzanian friends can get that message across, you can bet there will be many more compost piles to come.

Artemesia Tea

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I’ve been thinking of a day like today ever since I sat in Kyle and Ginger Holton’s living room and sipped a bitter, foul drink made from the leaves of the artemesia plant. While the taste of the “tea” that night wasn’t enjoyable in the least, the idea of it captured my attention. Kyle explained to us that a concoction of this tea, drank in specific quantities over the course of a few days, could cure Malaria. And the best thing about it: it could be grown in your backyard.  I knew that night that growing artemesia was bound to be part of our work in Tanzania.

Malaria is still a huge issue here in Tanzania. While the mortality rates caused by Malaria have fallen dramatically in the past 10 years, it still remains a deadly virus for populations living far from proper medicines and proper treatment facilities. A large portion of Mtwara’s population falls into that category, and because of its low altitude, warm weather, and heavy clay soils, the whole region is a “red zone” for Malaria.

As soon as we settled into our house here in Mtwara I started preparing a part of our land for growing the artemesia plants. We bought the seeds (from a small organization in Germany called Anamed), prepared some holes, and started our first seedlings. It’s been a tough process along the way. Starting the seeds was a trick due to their microscopic size. And the plants themselves didn’t seem to do well in the fierce tropical sun– most of them wanted to bolt to seed long before they were big enough for a good harvest. But we continued to mulch, fertilize, and love on these 20 plants for the past few months.

Our toil did pay-off however, and just last week we harvested enough to make our first, small batch of artemesia tea. We pulled the leaves, cut them up and dried them in the sun. It doesn’t look like much– mainly because its not– but to us, that small pile of dark green dried leaves represents our first tangible piece of “work” here in Mtwara. After a year of doing only “preparatory” work in language and culture, having a product that we can hold, smell, and even (unpleasantly) drink is a big step for our family.

We’ve got a long way to go in trying to do good here in Mtwara. Our knowledge of the land, the people, and the language is still only “novice” and our  connections and relationships with people still limited. We’re still far from ready to enter our “work” phase here. But today we celebrate a small victory, raising a glass of pungent artemesia tea,  and toast to whatever good and fruitful things the future may hold for us and our Tanzanian neighbors.

NOTE: To learn more about the Anamed organization, or about the Artemesia (A-3) plant and its uses in tropical countries like Tanzania, visit www.anamed.net. Also note that none of this tea will be distributed to anyone other than ourselves until we can determine its effectiveness. As of today, we still recommend and prefer to use the WHO guidelines for treatment of Malaria.

Confessions of an Amateur Mom

Before I had Reed, I wondered what motherhood would be like. I imagined going on walks, having tea parties, playing dress up, following a stumbling toddler around in the park, baking cookies, and receiving daily hugs from a pudgy armed midget, saying, “I love you, Mommy.” The times when I babysat someone else’s kid, I always had the comfort of knowing it would be different with my own. I would know what I was doing, right?

While I DO occasionally get a pudgy-armed hug, more often I get half eaten eggs and the daily exercise of finding all my things which have so cunningly been misplaced. Occasionally, i’m force fed cold macaroni, even if I have politely and vehemently refused. It turns out motherhood is not the most glamorous thing in the world, much like pregnancy. Once it’s actually you and you’re no longer just staring admiringly at that precious baby or the cute expecting mom, you realize why people start aging the second they become parents.

I distinctly remember talking to a friend when Reed was about three months old. Her son had just started walking and she was describing her typical day to me. “But surely it’s easier than a little baby right? I mean, isn’t he more independent now and don’t you have more time to get things done?” She looked at me with the same polite look you would if you were about to try to convey an abstract concept to an english beginner. Then I talked to parents of teen agers and wondered the same thing. “Doesn’t it get easier when you can talk to your kids and they can actually respond? Isn’t it easier when you can reason with them?” Same polite look. I have learned not to ask. The safest assumption is that there will always be easier and harder trade offs and that it will become generally harder until that dreadful day when Reed’s hero becomes a stupid boy instead of me.

I have to be honest, as we’ve gotten closer and closer to the ubiquitous terrible two’s, I’ve had do remind myself a lot that I only get one shot at this. As she demands more and more of me, it seems we’re farther than ever from some kind of reciprocal relationship in which I do something, like eat a disgusting leftover egg yolk or change a particularly epic diaper or get up before 6 to make breakfast after a sleepless night, and get a kiss and a “thank you”. A few times, unfortunately, I have lost sight of our numbered days with Reed as a toddler. The most recent was on our trip home from South Africa. Our flight left at midnight, arrived at 4am and she didn’t sleep at all on the plane. When we finally got to our hotel in Dar after a sleepless night for us all, it was a little after six. She slept for 45 minutes and then laid in bed, pulling back my bra strap as hard as she could before letting it snap on my back, which she did over and over. I finally sat up, grasped her shoulders, and said, “You BETTER take INCREDIBLY good care of me when i’m old, young lady!” Our first week back in Mtwara was rough. She was adjusting to the heat again and to the fact that we were no longer on vacation and couldn’t both give her 100% attention all the time. She wanted to be held all the time, wouldn’t nap, and slept terribly at night. Looking back, I’m positive much of that was stress she sensed in me. I felt guilty for my feelings towards her, especially because her adjustment was so understandable.

One afternoon, when I was trying to get her to take a nap, it occurred to me that perhaps all this guilt I felt was an over reaction. Love is complicated and fortunately, it is bigger than day to day moods or feelings. This is the case with every other relationship in my life that I would consider a loving one. I think I just never expected it to be the case with my own flesh and blood, that the day(s) would come when I just didn’t like her all that much. Surprisingly, admitting to myself that some days during the toddler months I might not like Reed all that much but believing that it’s ok to feel that way, I was a better mom. The following day I tried to read “Love You Forever” for nap time. It occurred to me then, as it does to all of us at one point i’m sure, the cruel irony that someday Reed would be doing some of these things for me, maybe with my gratitude and maybe not. She will someday take care of me but without the thrill of watching me develop and discover. She’ll be watching me as I un-become me. I held her a little tighter as she fell asleep, thought a little less about the dishes, and extinguished some of the anger I felt about her lack of gratitude. I reminded myself that the day will come when all I want is to rewind and follow her around for a day and clean up her messes and even, perhaps, crave egg yolks.

My own frustrations and journeying as a parent have made me marvel at the lack of consideration we so often give our parents as young adults. They spend our entire lives being completely consumed by us, reeling and losing sleep over every decision they make as they learn how the heck to be parents. Then one day we decide to go to college and somehow, in our infinite twisdom (teen wisdom) get the nerve to be hyper critical of their parenting as we uncover who we really are and all the ways they messed up to make us that way. As if that’s not bad enough, we get married and then they watch as our ultimate loyalty switches to someone we have known for a fragment of the time we have known them.

Mom and Dad, I thank you for the significant time you have poured into me and I apologize for my super twit college days when I was over critical of you. Thank you for eating my egg yolks and changing my disgusting diapers. Thanks for giving me space. Thanks for caring about me enough to spend weeks hunting for modest shorts that could still be cute. Thanks for being patient with me. If I could, I would rewind a bit and be more thankful and aware of how much of you thought of me ahead of yourselves.

And to Reed, my splendidly filthy, adorable rooster, I love you and yours are the only leftover egg yolks I would dream of eating. Forgive me when i’m short and cut me some slack when I crowd you and instruct you too much someday. I’m sorry for the negative things you’re bound to inherit from me but proud of the good things and prouder of the things you will be all on your own. If you ever call me, exasperated by your own child, I will listen patiently, just like my mom has, and remind you that you yourself were once unlikeable, though always lovable.

Annual Update

At the end of every year we’d like to send out an annual update that gives you all a little look into our lives over the past 12 months. This report is our first, documenting the time from October 2010 – October 2011, our first year here in Tanzania. So, click on the picture, download the report, read it, enjoy it, and give us your feedback. We’d love to know what you think, and know how we can improve this report for next year.

Let us give a big thanks to all who have made our work here in Tanzania a possibility: our families, our missions committee at Downtown Church, the Lexington Church, Church in the Falls, KIBO Group, and all of the individuals and families who are supporting us here in Mtwara. We are incredibly grateful and indebted to you all.

NOTE: If you’d like a printed copy of the report, respond with your mailing address and we’ll make sure to get one to you.

South Africa and Lesotho: Our First Family Vacation

We went to South Africa specifically for an agricultural workshop which was to take place in Lesotho.  We decided to take advantage of that by extending our trip one week and venturing to the Cape for our first vacation as a family.  As with other trips we have taken since being married, this one surprised us by the number of lovely people we encountered and it reminded us that the world, as flooded as it may be with shallow jerks, is also full of extremely cool people, exploiting their uniqueness for the sake of the rest of us.

We arrived in Johannesburg after midnight on a Tuesday, already delighted by the luxuries the western world has to offer, which included prompt service at the car rental desk and the inviting scent of a new-ish car, the engine of which was barely audible to our land cruiser adapted ears.  Once on the road it was like being in America again, just with really Dutch bill boards.  The next morning we set out to find a few warm things to wear for the workshop and a car seat which the car rental place had run out of.  We pulled in to the first gas station we saw and waited less time than we would have anticipated for a solution to our car seat dilemma.  A woman with a severe face and flaming red hair (who I probably would have described as having a lovely complexion and striking, almost violet hair before this incident) got out of her car next to us and started mouthing something to her husband.  I told Andrew they were talking about us because Reed wasn’t in a car seat.  “You’re over thinking it,” he said.  While he went inside to find an ATM, she walked past the car, shaking her head and glaring at me and then approached the window and tapped.  I rolled down the window and preceded to be chewed out for not having Reed in a car seat.  “I just can’t fathom how you could care so little about your daughter’s safety,” she said.  Stunned, I explained that we were traveling and hadn’t been able to get one, that we had pulled in to this gas station to ask someone about that very thing.  “You should have asked the other car rental companies.  Someone would have had a car seat, even in the middle of the night.”  Stunned further, I asked if she knew where we could buy one.  She suggested a few places and then handed me one of those info-mercial, triangular seat belt guiding thing-ies for kids.  “Oh really, you don’t need to give me that,” I said.  “I just care about your child’s safety,” she said and walked off.  Here’s what I learned from this encounter:

1. I think things like that about people frequently (though I would never have the gumption to confront/insult them about it) and should really remember that one can never know the whole story.

1. The high road is seldom cathartic (unless it’s the kind that involves heaping burning coals on someone’s head) and you will continue to rehearse for days or months what the low road would have sounded like.

After that rough introduction, we found Woolworth’s.  If you have ever been to South Africa, you have no doubt encountered one.  It’s like a department store but with a really pretty grocery store similar to Fresh Market or Whole Foods.  We went a little crazy on our first trip and took home mint chocolate chip ice cream, butter lettuce, a baguette, chocolate milk, and blue cheese among other things.

We made fresh salads every night in Johannesburg

With our supplies in toe, we set out for Lesotho, which we quickly learned is actually pronounced “lesutu”.  We had no idea what to expect for these two weeks, other than that we would be staying at someone’s house because it would be too cold at night to camp with Reed.  The trip was long but beautiful.  The landscape was so similar to the American west that it was easy to believe we were there instead.  Upon entering Lesotho, the landscape changed immediately to mountains and we soon found ourselves driving up windy gravel roads, feeling like the end of the earth was approaching.  All this…a hem…in a Volks Wagon Polo.  We felt ridiculous negotiating tiny, cuticle sized crevices we would normally fly over in our beastly Land Cruiser.  It was not until the very end of our 8hr. trip, as we were pulling into the drive way, that we lost a small piece of the bumper.

Landscape in Lesotho

The area was like an undeveloped Colorado Springs.  It was surrounded by mountains with a little creek just down the hill from the house.  The camp sight was in a clump of poplars.  And the house, oh, the house.  It was made of locally harvested sandstone and logs.  Picture windows were in every room.  There was a large covered porch overlooking the creek, complete with a grill, which South Africans call a braai.  Our hosts, the Bassons, were truly the most hospitable people we have ever met.  Their doors were always open, literally.  Every night we stayed there, they played host to multiple extra dinner guests beyond those of us staying in their home.  August, an extremely energetic pastor/agriculturalist, would serve up a nightly cut of wild game, which he would braai slowly over the coals yielding tender, juicy meat.  One night he grilled a two and a half foot long rack of Reedbuck.  The following night was a leg of lamb.  All this to say, what we had anticipated to be a “roughing it” kind of stay turned into a daily mixing of the best things on earth: good people and food.  We, and the twelve other guests, would feast while August entertained us with stories about their time in Lesotho or about his notorious flatulence.  We laughed harder than we have in a year and thanked God for this colorful family and the wisdom we gathered from our time with them.

The Basson's Sandstone House

After the training, we returned to Johannesburg for one night before heading to Cape Town.  We had planned two days in the city and three in a small wine town about an hour away.  Our first morning we went to the harbor of Cape Town.  We cruised the shops and watched Reed marvel at the shiny floors and mannequins, who she greeted in Swahili, only to discover they were not very talkative.  She LOVED the mall.  We bought her a small dark chocolate truffle and followed her in shifts while she stared at all the potential friends and toys.  She wondered into an actual toy store and stopped, stunned.  She looked up at me as if to say, “You never told me there was a place like this”.  After lunch we went to the Two Oceans Aquarium.  Not to be snobby, but for an aquarium boasting the variety of two oceans, I was a little disappointed.  I was hoping for the Shed Aquarium dolphin show or at least one really huge Great White shark. Nope. Reed enjoyed the fish, but not nearly as much as she enjoyed a completely ordinary ,non-fish pigeon stuck in the penguin exhibit.

At the Aquarium

The next day we had planned to pack a picnic and spend the day climbing Table Mountain.  Unfortunately, Reed got some kind of stomach bug and spent the entire night throwing up.  Due to our late start, we abandoned the mountain and hung around the streets at its foot.  We window shopped in and out of antique stores and little boutiques.  We sat in our favorite South African discovery, Melissa’s.  If you have ever seen the movie “It’s Complicated”, this shop reminded us of Meryl Streep’s bakery.  They had delicious coffee and an impressive kids’ menu I secretly wished to order from.  Later that afternoon we went to Kirstenbosch botanical gardens.  We immediately wished we had come sooner.  This huge park rests on the side of Table Mountain making it the backdrop for its manicured lawns, beautiful trees, and flowerbeds.  Mist was falling off the top, spilling into the park.  I kept expecting to see Mighty Joe Young emerge from the mist with his companion Charlize Theron and her alter-boy haircut.  We bought some coffee and strolled around the park, laying in the grass.  It was so fun to be in a spot so perfect for a toddler.  She was thrilled at all the uses for her outdoor lexicon, exclaiming “bird!  moon!  flower!  dog!  cow!  duck!” even when such things were not present.  We stayed until dusk and bought a few flower seed packets on our way out.

Playing at Kirstenbosch

The next morning we went to Franshhoek, known as the gourmet capital of South Africa.  Yes please.  I had researched different restaurants and vineyards, made a few reservations.  Once again, we were sabotaged by stomach bugs but this time it got me and Andrew.  The irony of this is still getting me, that we live in AFRICA but get sick in the western world on our vacation.  Thankfully, we still had a solid day and half to take in the area.  Most thankfully, we didn’t miss our chocolate tasting.  There is a famous chocolate shop in Franshhoek called Huguenots.  They offer a “chocolate experience” that includes a history of chocolate, tasting, and a few truffles to take home.  What most impressed me was that this little building, no bigger than the toy box in Searcy, puts out 40,000 chocolates a day by hand.  Also, while demand is constantly rising, they refuse to switch to machines because so many people need jobs in their town.  That’s why I didn’t feel guilty when I ate all of my take-home truffles.  It was, after all, for a good cause.

Entering the wine-town of Franshhoek

Our trip was an overall success.  We learned a few things about vacationing with kids, a little about this interesting country and it’s racial struggle, past and present.  We rubbed shoulders with people who deeply care for African farmers and are sacrificing a great deal to teach others to do the same.  As always, the highlight of this adventure was the people we met and the things they taught us.  Thinking back on it, I’m embarrassed by my nervousness about where we would stay and what the people would be like.  By now you would think I would only have confidence that whoever they are, they will become our friends.

Snap Shots: Agricultural Training in Lesotho

The past week Sarah and I have been in Lesotho, a little-known country buried in the heart of South Africa. We’ve been part of an in-field mentoring group learning “Farming God’s Way”– a low-tech, conservationist approach to improving rural agriculture. While we don’t love the name and all that it implies, we’ve really enjoyed the people and the ideas we’re learning. We’re working daily with the surrounding community, teaching and learning in community with the poor living in this area.  We still have 3 days left in the training, but here are some pictures from the past few days for a quick look into what we’ve been doing.

Lesotho is known as "The Mountain Kingdom". This is the view from the house we are staying in.

And this is the house we're in. We went prepared for sub-zero camping, but ended up in rural luxury. Wish you could see the inside of this place.

Lectures in the field: a local farmer walks us through the training curriculum.

Technical Lectures with Basutu farmers

Laying out "Terren Ropes" to plot exact planting stations

Grant Dryden walking through the basics of good compost

Our team's compost pile: 2m x 2m x 2m

Digging a model garden with the famers.

Reed making friends with some of the children at training. There was a great group of children interested in learning more about farming.

"Holing-out" the model garden. These same planting holes will be used year after year.

Sarah getting her hands dirty making furrows for a bean crop.

Sarah and Reed lying in the shade during training. Sarah has taken great care of Reed this week so one of us could be fully in on the training.

 

Our Week in Mkoma (Hers)

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We just returned a few days ago from our week long stay in the village of Mkoma.  Everyone we have talked to who has learned a language has told us this is the way to do it.  Taking their advice, we planned our trip hoping to expedite our language progress and learn more about Makonde culture while we were at it.  Andrew had visited this village before when he went for the circumcision ceremony and knew a few people there who might agree to host us.  Speaking of circumcision, i’m happy to report that after two and a half weeks, the little boy who became a man on my front porch finally went home, leaving poor Reed (and our poor garden) to nap in peace once again.  Ok, back to Mkoma.  We arrived on Monday morning and were greeted by Kaka Nyamba (brother Nyamba) and his wife, Chidwadwa.  We did not actually stay in their house but they provided most of our meals, and that’s a lot of food.

If you have never eaten in an African village than you have never truly been “stuffed”.  I’ve tried to think of American experiences that compare.  Thanksgiving is a reasonable comparison of the degree of stuffed-ness i’m talking about, if it consisted only of heavy starches and small dried fish, three to four times a day.  Our hosts never sat down to eat with us but rather, sat in the corner of the room watching as we did our best to finish the Mt. Kilimanjaro of rice before us.  Once we could feel rice and fish rising oozing out our pours, we would say, “Asante sana, tumeshiba kweli!” (thank you so much, we are full, truly!).  Once again, if you have never eaten in an African village, you have never tried to explain that you just can’t eat that much, that you are not accustomed to eating nine pounds of rice in one sitting.  They were just so darn gracious and kept giving us larger portions at every meal.

During this week we did not have internet access so I made sure to do lots of mental/hand written tweeting.  I will share some of those tweets now:

Monday, September 5th 3:32pm  Reed is already filthy and loving it.  Maybe for Christmas we’ll just get her some dirt and old corn cobs.

Monday, September 5th 8:57pm  Reed is knocked out on the bed.  She looks like she might be hibernating.  I’m on Andrew’s shoulders trying to hang this mosquito net while he stands on the bed.  It would be a lot easier if I could stop laughing.

Tuesday, September 6th 12:03 am  Bummer.  I thought maybe it was already morning.  We are losing the battle against these ants in our bed.

Wednesday, September 7th 1:20pm  This chicken is delicious.  All these tastes and smells are so familiar to me.  Chai made over a fire just tastes different.

Thursday, September 8th 3:25pm  I’m sitting in Chidwadwa’s cooking hut.  I’m amazed that she can handle the smoke in her eyes.  She’s making fun of me because I used my skirt to lift a pot off the fire instead of using my bare hands the way she does.

Thursday, September 8th 8:30pm  We just ate our second dinner.  We are drunk on rice.

Friday, September 9th 7:01 am  My teeth are killing me from all the kasava we’re gnawing.

Friday, September 9th 12:15 pm  We’re heading home!  Oh, and we’re taking 3 men and a live chicken with us.  Luckily, the chicken is half way inside a shopping bag and looks like he might dose off for a while.

My experience in the village was a little different than I expected, which is to be expected.  I did a lot of sitting by myself.  People came to whisk Andrew away constantly.  And of course, Reed was always off somewhere eating and playing with things I’d rather not know about.  (I went to check on her one afternoon and found her laying down near a goat pen, making a snow angle in goat droppings.  See what I mean?  I just don’t need to know about it.  Mom, I DID escort her away from them just so you know).  So that left me alone a lot.  I tried to ask for work whenever I could.  I wanted to help with the cooking or at least sit in the hut and visit while she cooked.  Sometimes she told me I could help and I quickly learned this meant she would give me the chair she was sitting on, resume her cooking, and eventually tell me to go inside and rest.  One afternoon when I had asked for work to do, she told me to go get some exercise.  She pointed to the bike.  So I strapped on Reed in the ergo and road in circles around this tiny village, up and down the not-so-big main drag, because surely we had not yet made big enough spectacles of ourselves with our lacking Swahili and bird-like appetites.

Other times I would sit outside with her and her friends.  They were always excited to teach me phrases in KiMakonde, which was telling to us that it’s going to be something we try to learn.  Anytime we said something in KiMakonde, usually one of the few greetings we knew, it was a big deal.  It was strange and sort of cool to be using one language to learn some of another.  They would teach me a phrase or word in Makonde and then say it in Swahili.  I felt so comforted by swahili and I must say that’s a first for me.

Besides some new words, I learned a lot about village life.  For several months, I have wondered how women do everything that have to do and take care of their kids at the same time.  Sometimes I have felt defeated that I can’t do it all myself.  Well, I learned that in a small village, there are always kids around to take care of other kids.  Really, it seems like everyone is expected to help.  It’s not unusual to see a six year old girl with her baby brother tied around her back.  Even little boys know how to take care of babies.  I spent less time with Reed during that week than I ever have because there were always people to look out for her.  In that way, kids take on greater responsibilities at a younger age but aren’t robbed of childhood because they’re playing the whole time.

I also learned how to bathe with inadequate privacy, how to use considerably less water, and that I have a long way to go in being truly hospitable.  Every meal was clearly a sacrifice.  Our hosts killed four of their chickens for us, which left us to ask what we will give when they come to visit us?  I’m not sure what the equivalent is for me to give but I know it’s more than I have been giving.  And oh, how quickly we forget!  Just yesterday I baked banana bread and offered my smallest loaf to my neighbor Selina.  Only after I gave it to her did I think about the irony, that I had just spent a week being given the very best I couldn’t even give my precious banana bread more generously to my friend.

I got a text today from one of the friends we made in the village, saying that she would be coming through on her way to Dar.  I hope I can welcome her with the same grace she has given me.

The Boy Who Became a Man on My Porch

Living here, it has become clear to me that certain aspects of my etiquette training have failed me.  What do I say, for example, when the nightwatchman asks to circumcise his grandson on the porch?  “Awesome, David!  We would LOVE that!”.  I think not.  Oh and by the way, this is not hypothetical.

A while ago, David asked Andrew this vary question.  Andrew said yes, not knowing what else to say.  Little did we know the day they chose for this blessed event would also be a day Andrew was gone.

It was a Saturday morning.  Andrew was in Ndanda with the other guys for a man weekend (mustaches, bread, meat, Lord of the Rings).  David had arrived the night before with his grandson.  If you remember Andrew’s post about the circumcision ceremony he attended, you remember usually it’s done in a large group, after which the boys live together in the wilderness for a week with an elected manly man to shepherd them.  Apparently, an mzungu (white person) porch is also an acceptable locale if all wilderness is booked.  Old men, friends of David, started arriving around 6:30 that morning.  They were chatting with the little boy, swapping stories and advice.  Etiquette question number 1:  “Do I offer refreshments?  Coffee?  Whiskey to numb that poor little kid’s wits?  About an hour after the wazee (old men) began arriving, the boy started wailing.  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t begrudge him this.  He was after all about to experience some discomfort.  It’s just that it made the actual event impossible to predict.  Hunkered down in the kitchen making pancakes, I would hear a particularly shrill wail and Reed and I would exchange nervous glances (seriously, i’m not making this up) only to find out someone was just teasing him.  After several false starts, Reed began mocking the poor boy, walking around the house moaning and then laughing proudly.  Etiquette question number 2:  “Do I turn on some music?  A movie?  Something to drown out the noise?  Or would that be a distraction in what might be a crucial moment?”  Unsure, Reed and I stayed in our bunker with the curtains closed.  We watched Monster’s Inc., having a decidedly better time than our friend outside. When things had calmed down, I poked my head out the door and asked David if I could come outside.  I brought the boy-man a coke and a popsicle for a sugar boost.  He was resting, cradled even in David’s lap.  Some of the men had left but a few were still around, patting him on the back and encouraging him.

Tomorrow they will go back home.  We have enjoyed having them around.  It has been so nice to let Reed play outside more of the day and have a steady flow of visitors to practice language with.  I learned more about David during these visits too, like that he has been married twice.  His first wife died in 1975.  He loved her very much because, and I quote, “She was soooooo fat”.  I also learned why he chastises us so often about only having one child.  David’s first wife couldn’t have children and his current wife has given him eleven, only six of whom are living.  The others, he told me, died as infants and toddlers.  “You have to have a lot,” he told me, “so when you lose a few, some remain.”  I asked him if he still thinks about them.  He told me he remembers them every day.

He also asked me if it was true what Andrew had told him, that he only paid my parents four cows for me.  I asked if that was expensive.  He laughed and said it was extremely cheap.  Gee, thanks Andrew.  He may have mistaken my amused eye rolling for hurt feelings, because he then assured me that my body was fat enough.  What more could a girl ask for on a lazy Saturday morn?

 

 

 

 

 

Tunazoea (We are adjusting)

I think most people have experienced culture shock at some point.  It doesn’t take a move across the ocean to feel like your brain is going to explode from a constant stream of new and different stimuli.  I think my first experience with culture shock occurred at Alf Junior High in Searcy.  My summer growth spurt, crushes, practicing the cheer leading try- out dance on the way to the mandatory scoliosis screening, crying because a mean girl told me she hated my sweater if it was from Wal-Mart but loved it if it was from Old Navy- these instances are all evidence that I was in severe culture shock.  The world was changing quickly and I didn’t know how to keep up.  I didn’t know the right language or purchase my sweaters from the correct store (Veronica, if you’re reading this, it WAS from Old Navy!).  It’s like wearing a sign on your forehead that says, “I AM SO CONFYUSED AND WEERD” and then someone points out that your sign is misspelled.  Culture shock can, at times, render you unable to recognize the good.  That’s why I didn’t always appreciate the advice of my parents when they encouraged me to look for the good.  I heard what they were saying and sort of believed it, but mostly just wanted a pal to wallow with.  By the way, my parents were pretty good at that, too.

When our first visitors arrived in Mtwara, it was peek culture shock season at our house.  We had been in Mtwara for just over one month, our house felt like a wreck and our Swahili felt like more of a wreck.  Amazingly, our guests had mostly positive things to say about our locale.  “Wow, you live right by the ocean!  Look at those beautiful vegetables!  The fish market is so cool!  You can buy such great things here!  I can’t believe you can buy such delicious cheese!  Look at the beautiful sunset!”.  All of these things, ALL OF THEM, I wanted to qualify or explain away.  “Well, it’s still like a 15 minute walk and the tide is out most of the time.  Yeah, the vegetables are great but I have to wash them really thoroughly.  The fish market is cool I guess but we don’t have a fillet knife yet.  The cheese, really?!  We get one kind of cheese and it doesn’t melt the way I want it to!  The sunset is ok, I guess.”

After a few months I began to pick up on this.  There were people crazy enough to think the place I lived was awesome meanwhile Andrew and I would daydream about what we would be doing in America (we still do that sometimes).  “We’d be in grad-school and working minimum wage jobs on opposite shifts to take turns taking care of Reed!  Doesn’t that just sound like heaven?!”  Slowly, it dawned on me that perhaps all our visitors weren’t loons.  I had to start admitting to myself that there were/are in fact some perks to life in Southeastern Tanzania.  “I hate my life!” (we still say that sometimes) slowly morphed into “You know?  I think ten years from now I might just miss coconuts.”

For the remainder of this blog, I’d like to point out just a few of the things that have grown on me.

1.  Almost every day, I go to the little market close to our house.  It’s much smaller than the big market and as a result, a little less intimidating.  The people there are starting to get to know me and I them.  I buy my tomatoes and onions from Baba Rachel (he’s called Rachel’s Dad), my passion fruit, pineapples, and bananas from Saidi (who greets me theatrically as he tells me his very special price), and my okra, potatoes, and garlic from a lady whose name I must confess I do not know.  I take Reed along with me most days.  Someone usually gives her a banana and then she walks around, spreading joy the way toddlers often do.

 

2. The way clothing salesman hang dresses and skirts will never cease to give me great joy.  The ideal Tanzanian woman is much more womanly than her American counterpart, which is why the goal is to accentuate the hips on these hanging clothes.

 

3.  I love making passion fruit juice.  I love adding it to iced tea, making popsicles, or just drinking as is.  It is magnificent.

 

4.  Selina is my language helper and neighbor.  She is my first friend here.  Her family came over recently for pizza and we sat around our table talking and laughing about real things.  She knows all the names of my family members, has brought me pumpkins from her garden, and patiently listens/corrects me as I butcher her language.  She came over last night to check on me when she heard I have an amoeba.

 

5.  The ocean is an obvious one.  We have a fisherman friend named Barakat who agrees to take us out sometimes on his boat.  The water is perfectly clear and clean.  I think people were intended to swim in the ocean as often as possible.  It’s good for the soul.

 

6.  Our night watchmen is a 72 year old, crotchety man.  He sort of came with the house.  At first we weren’t sure what to think, maybe because he told us he would continue to garden in our yard and we could find somewhere else to grow things.  He has become our closest friend here.  He won’t set foot inside our house, though we have invited many times, but sits outside our dining room window most nights, visiting with us as we all eat dinner (he eats more than me and Andrew combined).  He has given us a lot to laugh about in the past several months, like when he told us the man who built our house built a room especially for the preparation of dead bodies (i.e. our bathtub, because he had never seen one used for anything but that) or when he saw our cracked windshield and thought Andrew hit an airplane (because the word for bird and plane are the same and he’s only seen an airplane in the sky).  His name is one of the few words in Reed’s growing vocabulary (dee dee!).  He calls her mtundu (trouble maker).

 

7.  We have beautiful, tropical flowers and bushes around our house.  I love keeping them around the house.  Reed loves to smell them (i.e. she sticks her face in them, puckers her lips and blows air out of her nose with tremendous gusto).

 

We still daydream about being in America and certainly have days when the differences overwhelm us completely, but I think we’ve crossed over an important hump in our adjustment that allows us to see the good, of which there is a great deal.  I don’t love this place yet but at least now I expect to.

Jando Part I: The Circumcision Ceremony

One of the highlights of Ross and my trip into the interior was being able to participate in the Jando– or circumcision ceremony– of the Wamakonde in Chitekete. Having been invited by a friend from Mtwara whose son was “being cut”, we set out on our third day for the village of Chitekete, hoping to arrive in time to witness the ceremony.

And we got there just in time.

Not long after we made it to the village and greeted our friend Jefari, we were escorted into the wilderness (porini) where the children were gatehred and where the ceremony was set to take place. The kids (ages 6-8) were all sitting under a tree, in special dress-like clothing, sipping on sugary beverages and eating little packs of biscuits– presumably to keep their blood sugar up. There were about 15 of them, all having a look of apprehension on their faces, unsure of what to expect but knowing something significant was happening.

About 50 yards away from the children, the men of the village had constructed a 15’x8’ hut, called the Jando hut, where the children, after being circumcised, would live and learn together for the next month.

The Jando Hut

We all waited for about an hour because the official circumcision doctor (a man whose sole job is the professional removal of foreskin) was late. (surprised?)

Once the doctor arrived, the ceremony was underway.

In the first part of the ceremony, the boys left the community of men and went deeper into the wilderness with the doctor. Two by two they would be escorted to a spot not visible to all of the other children where all that could be heard was the whimpering– and sometimes screaming– of the boys as the doctor did his work. At this point, they were only receiving a “shindano” (a shot) that would numb the pain of the cut and reduce bleeding.

Once all of the children had received the shot, they were led away to a holding area for another 20 minutes while 1.) the shot had time to numb their “areas” and 2.) the (good) witch doctor could come and bury bewitched items at the entrance of the Jando hut in order to keep evil spirits (which would come in the form of lions or snakes) out of the hut for the next month. Ross and I were able to enter the hut while they did this and inside we found a completely naked man (mtu uchii kabisa)– the witch doctor– painting designs on eggs and quickly burying them in holes at the front and back of the hut.

After all of the preparations had been made and the shot had time to set-in, all of the men gathered in a large circle at the entrance of the Jando hut. One-by-one the children, then escorted by a close family member, were led into the middle of the circle to meet the doctor and his cutting assistant.

The first child made the process look easy. He walked into the middle of the circle, lifted up his little dress and watched in confused amazement as the doctor removed the necessary skin. He was then led into the Jando hut and the next child entered the circle.

I was amazed by the toughness of these young children (recalling my own crying/wailing experiences with mere immunizations) until the third or fourth child who, having gotten an idea of what was going to happen to him, completely lost it. He wanted no part of whatever this doctor was doing. He kicked and screamed and wriggled until a few of the encircled men entered to hold him in place. After a few quick cuts, the screaming was over and the boy passed into “manhood” just like the few who had gone before him.

I was surprised with how little shame there was in his fear. I initially presumed that any sign of fear in the midst of all of these men would be treated as immature, childish, or shameful. But other than an occasional “usiogope” (don’t be afraid) from the crowd, no one treated the screaming children any different from the “brave” (or oblivious) ones.

The fear of that first screaming child quickly spread to the others. After he introduced the screaming, most of the rest followed in suit, imagining something terrible must be happening if the others were making so much noise.

Once all the children had been circumcised, the families gathered in small circles around their respective children and spent the next hour or so encouraging the newly initiated children and applying their own family-specific remedies to the wounds. More sugary drinks and snacks were brought to keep the children’s blood sugar up, and the doctor made one final pass to inspect his work and make sure there were no complications. Each family made a traditional Makonde brace out of limbs to help the children sleep “comfortably” through the first night.

Mkoba, Jefari, and Fahki (one of the initiates)

After the hour had passed, the family groups said goodbye to their children whom they would leave there in the wilderness for the next month.

There in the Jando hut, together with all of their fellow initiates, and under the supervision of one adult male leader (who is elected by the community as the manliest of men…think Lee Fouts), these children would spend the next month cut-off from all of their family,  learning everything they need to know about being a man. How to farm, how to hunt, how to show respect to their elders, how to work together for the good of their community. In the Jando hut they would heal together and learn together and emerge as bonded, effective members of their society.

Walking back from the wilderness with Jefari, the father of one of the initiates, we were invited to return to Chitekete a month later for the real celebration– the day when the community would welcome back their new men. Apparently the actual circumcision paled in comparison to the day when the children would return, a day marked with dancing, drumming, drinking, and of course, feasting.

Being part of the ceremony was a great experience for both Ross and I. We got an inside look into some of the traditional beliefs of the Makonde people and built some significant relationships with the people in Chitekete.

Jefari and I after the ceremony

For me, the experience offered the opportunity to reflect on my own childhood and on my own cultures lack of good initiation rites. I can’t tell you the day that I became a man. The only real markers I can think of were the ones given by Uncle Sam- the ability to drive, vote, drink, and smoke. This is a topic Sarah and I have talked about at length– the need to give our children clear transitions into womanhood, manhood, adulthood. We’ve got some time before those events happen in our little family, but in the mean time we’ll be taking lessons from our surrounding cultures and brainstorming Fraser-family rites of passage.

(As of July 9th, I returned to Chitekete for the return of the Jando group and will follow-up this blog with the second half of the ceremony…the party.)