So, I suppose this story, or collection of stories, is rather tangential. They doesn’t all directly relate to the previous story, world issues, or volunteering itself. It’s more about me (as if any of this isn’t). I suppose it’s something I learned here, or more accurately relearned. It’s about holidays. I’ll do this in chronological order, it seems best.
Thanksgiving.
It’s not really a long story. At Thanksgiving I had been here about three months. Usually, Thanksgiving is about getting you ass fatter with people you love, and if you so choose, getting drunk and/or watching football. Thanksgiving is one of the only holidays celebrated by only Americans. Sure there is President’s day, or something, but nobody really celebrates that, and for good reason. Name me a president who isn’t responsible for murder (yes, even Obama), and I’ll give you a messiah. Well, maybe William Henry Harrison, but I digress. So, I wasn’t all that crazy about going nuts with Thanksgiving, but Catherine, our matronly retired prof volunteer really wanted the celebration. So, she enlisted a bunch of the candidates at the monastery, a couple of the monks, and Andrew and myself to prepare a meal. Andrew, Catherine, and myself all love to cook, something we don’t get the chance to do here very often. Going to the supermarket to find a good turkey is nothing. Nothing. Having to go on a crappy bus into town, spend a whole day searching for supplies and hauling it back is something else. First of all there are no turkeys here let alone Butterballs. Catherine brined three chickens over night. We couldn’t find many normal stuffing fixings (except giblets) so we used stale bread and a can of corn beef hash. A can of sweet corn (they only grow white corn here) costs more than twice as much as it does at home. With the same money could buy you, like, 80 tomatoes when they are in season. We made it work. For the crowning achievement, we made an apple pie. A Thanksgiving staple and a relatively easy thing to make at home created quite a commotion. Regulating the temperature, jerry-rigging a pie pan for aluminum foil, finding freakin’ apples, at the very least, presented major logistical challenges. We made it all work. Nothing was quite like home, but we didn’t care.
As far as candidates go, many pretend to want to be monks in hopes of getting a free education. Others have a true vocation and are still treated like shit also. We mostly invited the later. So, for Tanzanians, special food doesn’t really matter that much. Not for the flavor anyway, status being a different issue. For them, it was maybe the only chance they will ever get to experience another culture. For us it meant something different entirely. We had eaten basically the same flavorless-but-for-over-salting-and-tons-of-oil food for a long damn time. We hadn’t been able to dictate what we ate. It wasn’t that the monastery is poor, it’s not, it’s really rich. Most Tanzanians just like really bland, crappy, food. I would compare it to coming to the rural Midwest from a different part of America, multiply it times fifty, wash, rinse, repeat. It was like an oasis. But more importantly, it was people who care about each other coming together to eat special food. Think about that. I mean really think about that. I mean, really think. I mean you can go to the store, right now, and buy a turkey or the fixing for stuffing. You could make basically the same meal you eat on Thanksgiving any day you want if you make the time for it. It took us three days of preparation. That’s the core I suppose, it’s special because you make it special. You could decide not to do that particular activity but something else you don’t get to do all that often. Hell, you could take your holiday off work and drink, clean you house, watch movies or Internet porn, whatever. But you don’t.
So I suppose I should mention this: Catherine, the most gun-ho about Thanksgiving, was not born in the United States, she was born in the Philippines. You see here, we get called “mzungu” every day, even Catherine, who, by their logic, should be called “mchina**.” But she’s not, and I’m not. We’re Americans. Catherine was born in the Philippines, but she’s an American too. So am I, even though my grandfather is a first generation American.
Why do I write about all of this ad-nausium? Well I suppose I stumbled upon two of the things being an American is really about (or, at least, is supposed to be). Note: Capitalism is not one of them. It doesn’t matter where the hell you come from, if you live in America, you are American***. Period. But further, Americans celebrate what really matters (at least until commercialism perverted it), the act of sharing things with, not exclusively those you love, but virtually anyone who wants to be a part of it all. And that, is something I can get behind.
Christmas
So, upon our departure from Dar I was left with a tough decision. Andrew is my boy and Steph and Nick rule, not to mention some other really awesome people who would be around Hanga during Christmas. But, I was confronted with something else. That same gaggle of tourists I mentioned before would be staying there at the same time. Also, Tanzanian celebrations, for lack of a better word, suck. There is usually a really long ass mass (if they are Catholic WaTz), a ton of boring traditional dancing (and the dances are usually in Kiswahili, unless they use a tribal language I can’t understand, a language that wasn’t that ubiquitous in this part of the world until a hundred years ago, make of that what you will), several really long speeches, food that is somewhat better than normal, and me sitting in a public place where I can’t really leave. Also, most of the monks who are our best friend are the younger ones. Being the lowest on the food chain, they are the most likely to have to take care of the tourists. So, I decided to meet up with some friends from the Peace Corps. in another village. It was a really hard choice. But I thought, not getting pestered and cooking myself trumped many things.
I ran into some of my friends heading the same place for Christmas when Andrew, Steph, Nick, and I were in town, said goodbye and got on a different bus. So, this won’t be one of my most interesting stories, nothing ridiculous, dangerous, or particularly wild. This is a different part of my personality that many people don’t necessarily realize exist. This experience consisted of making and drinking coffee (and taking a couple of hours to do so), cooking food, doing dishes and crosswords, and solidifying friendships. Anyway, sometimes, I suppose, I’m the most Zen when I’m the most domestic.
So, especially with the Peace Corp types, they have to do their own cooking all the time. Many are quite tired of it, where as I seldom have a chance to do something I love. It works out pretty well. I spent a great deal of my Christmas season (note two days before and the day after, not a month) cooking and cleaning, because I like to do it, and it gave a welcome rest to friends of mine. Also, something I came to realize (something I’d like to apply to the rest of my life) I’m not a Peace Corp. Volunteer. If Andrew or I want to talk about the problems of the day we can tell each other almost whenever we want. Not so with the PCVs, they are usually alone at their sites. Thus, I shouldn’t talk about my site-specific problems they can’t relate to because this is one of their few opportunities to talk about like problems with people who experience them. Some times slow on the uptake, I should have started cooking or cleaning sooner instead of trying to steer a conversation my way.
So, anyway, we spent the time in really good conversation, drinking the best coffee we’ve had in a while. My friend Amanda, who I have to say, I’ve really become close with and really respect (I’m not sure if she knows how much I appreciate her, but anyway) has an ability I cherish. She is someone who is able to call me on my shit and I respect when she does it without resenting it. Anyway, I think I was lucky to get to know her and her sort of new (they didn’t date during their training, really) boyfriend Marshall better***. So, we drank lots of coffee and hung out. One thing about the volunteer experience, I’m not sure if I have ever had an experience (aside from maybe backpacking trips) where I have had so many friends together for such an extended period of time just hanging out and shooting the proverbial shit.
We sang Christmas carols. I hate Christmas music. At least, I hate getting bombarded with holiday cheer (i.e. commercialism) for over a month. I had hearing the same thing over and over. I hate gaudy crap that doesn’t look good on anyone’s front lawn. I hate the materials and energy it all wastes. This time, however, it was wonderful. It’s hard to remember the last time I sang Christmas carols instead of hearing them while walking through the grocery store or something. So, we sang Christmas carols. It was beautiful. I mean really beautiful. Most people didn’t have good sing voices (and I don’t exclude myself), but it was incredible. Some of my students who lived in the village came to greet me, and (as opposed to the usually request of me teaching them to sing hip-hop) they got Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer. We all knew most of the words to all the songs we sang, and the disparate elements and distances that kept us from the other people we love made us sing the songs like we meant them.
We did have one very non-traditional element in our Christmas. We had an epic water balloon fight. Jack, Jack, Cindy and Ginny (I mighta spelled that wrong), the newer education volunteers, and I spent several hours filling water balloons. In order to do this we jerry-rigged a system where we cut the bottom off a plastic bottle and blew the water into the balloon. This worked surprisingly affectively and it made a gratifying plop when it filled. At one point, amidst the hours of witty banter and rapidly worsening soreness in our cheeks, Ginny had a full balloon her lap and one of the Jacks leaned over and touched his cigarette to the balloon. This resulted in a very wet crotch on Ginny’s end.
I at one point I sat on the porch with my friends Erica and Randy (who are dating) doing crossword puzzles. There were a few instances where I knew a particularly obscure answer or gave an unnecessary explication. Randy called me on my showing off. From then onward, I would act super-tongue-in-cheek know it all every time I gave an answer to the point where it became like an in-joke between Randy and I. At one point someone mentioned Cat Stevens, and I said deadpan and matter of factly “you know, I know Cat Stevens,” and we burst into laughter. Over the course of time, another volunteer, Tristan, and I became increasingly antagonistic over the water balloons. All of a sudden, I saw Randy shooting up like a bullet with two balloons in hand yelling something to the effect of “it starts now.” I screamed, “no wait, we have to finish making them first, not yet, what are you doing!?!?!” It was to no avail. Soon, all 14 of us became enveloped in the utter chaos that ensued. At this point, I’d like to point out that Amanda was the first white person to ever come to her village. Suddenly there were fourteen of us running, shouting, and throwing water balloons at each other. There is something strange and animalistic about the way people act in a water balloon fight. One moment, we were all friends, the next it would not be out of place to hear “you are the illiterate product of incestuous union!” as floppy projectile whizzes past your left ear. At any given moment, one might turn on her or his ally, like when I pegged Amanda in the back right after we teamed up on someone. Or the way that Marshall threw his hands around his body attempting to run and crouch at the same time when he saw my guile filled smile and murderous eyes holding two balloons and standing directly the stockpile of balloons and himself. There is something pathetic about shielding your face from something you know won’t hurt, but you run like the devil is at you heels anyway. Even some of the village mamas joined in. We didn’t have teams or any sort of rules, it was basically just a slaughter-fest, wonton and unbridled.
A bit later on, one mama who was Amanda’s neighbor, invited herself in, in typical Tz fashion. After a litany of greetings, she dramatically said, what translates to, “Amanda is my own child. And she eats rice every day!” That was pretty much it. This is actually the kind of shit that villagers talk about here. I also think she was drunk. They do a lot of that too.
Later that night, during dinner, I sat by Erica and we started talking about stuff like Wendell Berry. Eventually the conversation drifted to the nature of our Christmas. Beside backpacking trips or family holiday board games etc. I can think of two other times that I’ve past the time in a similar fashion. The first was in Ireland. Some of my friends and I went to a few storytelling nights. It was only us American college students and a bunch of old Irish people. There were sandwiches and pints while people told jokes or stories, read Robert Service poems, and played songs on guitars. It’s what people used to do to entertain themselves. One of the times I went, one of the performers couldn’t make it, and they asked if anyone from the audience wanted to do something. My friends volunteered me to play a song. I played “Moonshiner,” an old folk song that Bob Dylan and Uncle Tupelo both do versions of. It was amazing. The other happened at Billy’s house. Myself, Billy, Jasmine, Joe, Shaun, Joe’s sister and her friend who came from Scandinavia to the south to learn bluegrass, sat around drinking whiskey. We had two or three guitars, a fiddle, and a banjo. We passed them around and played songs for a couple hours. It was one of the most wonderful nights of my life. Before radios, T.V.s, ipods, and computers this is what people did. Most of us Americans have become completely disconnected this part of the human experience. I saw it in Ireland, when the country became rich, people turned their back on their traditions in favor of cell phones and McDonalds (this is a sweeping generalization, mind you). For example, the only people in Celtic Studies courses were older students and American exchange students. I see it happening here. Globalism is destroying the few tattered ashes of indigenous culture left behind by colonialism. So it goes. At least for a few nights, we unspokenly felt a part of something old. Old and good.
A little later we exchanged gifts white elephant style. Before, I gave a painting to the three volunteers I knew the best. It was great because each picked the painting that I thought matched them the best. Amanda chose the painting that used the Tz color palette the best. Erica chose a painting more close to the work I did in college, and the one that would have been my drawing prof’s favorite. And my friend Bill chose the one that had the most political commentary. I put another painting in the pile of gifts, but because I put it in upside-down, everyone thought it was just a piece of cardboard. Randy ended up choosing between that and a low quality Chinese pirate dvd of “Harry Potter and the Other,” which had all the Harry Potter movies, the new Star Wars, and for some reason, all the Home Alones. I ended up getting a big tub of peanut butter because I knew Andrew would like it. Firstly, because he really likes peanut butter, secondly, because he needs all the fat and protein he can get because he’s lost like 30 pounds. On a side note, Andrew, Nick, and Steph brought me a bottle of Jim Beam from the States. When they pulled it out I was speechless, I might even say that I nearly shed a single tear, but that might be exaggerating*****. I later went up to Randy and told him I was happy that he picked the painting. I said I might never see him again, and it was a good memento from that Christmas. He replied something to the effect of “treat every time you see someone as the if it’s possibly your last. It will change your life.”
For me Christmas means, basically, three things: A time to for family who I seldom see and very much miss, Mexican food, and mortality. I guess there is one reason don’t usually get homesick, all my extended family lives, like, a thousand miles from me. I’m used to it. Mortality is a weird one. In one of my first clear Christmas memories, I had a bad fever and I was wrapped in a blanket, almost hamming it up as the sick kid wanting attention. Then, I don’t recall how long after, we needed to take my Mom to the hospital. It might be the first time I became viscerally and tangibly aware of others’ suffering, not just existing, but my own being inconsequential by comparison. Every Christmas, I see my Grandparents becoming a little more feeble and aged. I hate it. I wish I had more time with them and more moments to spend. I want to hear Papa’s WW2 stories, I want to do crosswords with Granny, I want Dodo to control elements of my life. But that’s that. I am reminded of what I don’t have, and cherish what I do. I was reminded of the “true meaning of Christmas.” But it isn’t the sort of after school special moral that we usually get jammed down our throats. Sometimes, we need to stop everything, remember our traditions and just spend time with people.
New Year’s Eve
I sat in my room alone early on New Year’s, nursing a beer and feeling pretty lame. Andrew was on his way back from Dar and I didn’t have anything else better to do. So, I sunk in my chair relegated to listening to music and drinking my beer. I thought I might go count to midnight with the monks, drink a free beer and than go to bed. It was at that point I heard a knock on the door. It was Fr. Francis. He asked me if I wanted to get a beer in the village. That single beer that eventually multiplied many fold. Fr. Francis graduated with his masters from St. John’s the same time I graduated with my undergrad. So, besides the fact that he is awesome and speaks fluent English, we have that in common. We went to a patio type thing they have in front of a duka or store. I went into full Tz mode. We joked and talked, and I spoke in all Kiswahili to the villagers, and if I ran into trouble with my words, Fr. Francis could translate for me. I had the villagers rolling, I went on about my “I’m not European, I’m an American, thank you very much” rant. I also told them that my father was not able to visit my Grandparents because there was too much snow to leave the house. They were completely shocked. I acted totally like a drunk villager, yelling, telling people to go get things for me, etc. It was awesome. Francis sneakily kept ordering more beer for us when I wasn’t looking. At one point, I voiced concerns about how much it was costing to which he replied, “you know, we’re only spending something like $18.” Alright, if a priest says it, I can’t complain. I’ve been kinda dismayed here often about how much money I blow on stuff like beer, going to town, eating out, etc. I think in shillings now, so, it was like “oh man, 20,000 shillings is a lot of money.” It is nice to step back every once and a while and think, “at home this would be like 60 bucks, not 18, is okay to splurge sometimes.”
The night drew on and I wondered why I was more drunk than Fr. Shawa (his surname). Then I realized that I have been drinking Castle Milk Stout, which is 6% and he had been drinking Castle Lager, which is 5%. He’s also sneaky. We were a riot. I realized that it wasn’t just that Shawa was looking out for me, but he also wanted to be in the village and he was using me as an excuse. He was on point with everyone. The guy really knows how to mingle, get a little crazy, but still maintain his status in the community. A couple drunks harassed us for beer, in typical Tz “you’re rich, buy me shit,” fashion. At one point, one dude actually got on his knees in front Fr. Francis, and in unison we almost yelled simama or get up. Another guy would not stop harassing me. He just would not leave me alone. I got so fed up, that said “you want everything I have?” and I threw my pull-over on to the ground, spit on it (pretty much the worst insult here) and said “welcome.” I was bluffing of course, I did not want to lose my pull-over from mountaineering club in Ireland, but if he had taken it, it would have made him the biggest chump in the village.
Soon, both of us forgot about the incident. At the stroke of midnight, I started to run around to all the random people and shout “happy new year!” or “oyee” (which is pretty much a cheer, I would liken it to hip hip hooray or something) or “sema safi, safi!” People were eating it up. At one point, someone called me mbongo, which is slang for Tanzanian. It was one of my prouder moments here. Eventually, we started dancing. Fr. Francis was seamless and really in his element. I mostly tried to stop nasty mamas from grinding on me. After a full night of revelry, we both went back, me to my quiet hostel and him to his quiet monastery. He somehow was able to say mass at 7:00 the next morning. I, on the other hand, spent most of the morning completely incapacitated in my bed. At that point, it dawned on me that I had just gotten blotto with a priest in a village for free. Awesome.
So, I suppose I learned the true meaning of New Years, getting drunk and making a total ass of yourself.
Valentine’s Day
Every year, St. Cloud State has this massive radio trivia contest that lasts all Valentine’s weekend. Something like 60 teams compete for 48 straight hours. Andrew really did not want something like the Atlantic Ocean to get in the way. It sounded pretty hard core. His team had a website so they could streamline their operation and allow folks outside of home-base (they literally had a home base) to join their team more effectively. So, that weekend, Andrew and I stayed at our friend Alena’s place in town (Songea). I played support, cooking and cleaning while Andrew spent much of his time at the internet café. Alena’s house is basically the meeting place for the Peace Corps cats in the region, so she often has visitors and largish gatherings take place at her abode. I think I was probably really nice for her to have guest over that cooked and cleaned for her and didn’t (inevitably usually) leave an aftermath. Alena is pretty quiet, and I’ve usually been around her in large gatherings, so this time, it was nice to actually get to know her. We bonded over our love of environmental architecture (she has a masters in environmental engineering). The last time we talked, we discussed our dream homes we’ve been designing. I made some detailed sketches. She made a computer mock up. I felt hopelessly sub-par.
I cooked a lot of awesome food, and I was so excited about it that I planed the meals, like, a week in advance. One thing I made was that winemaker’s soup I like to make at home. It was really extravagant because wine and real butter are really expensive here. Every once and a while, it’s nice to forget you’re in Tanzania a little. Also, discover, goat bones that have been sitting out for a long time, make a terrible broth. Luckily, Alena had bullion cubes.
On the afternoon of Valentine’s Day, I went to the market and a few other places. I had a couple beers and had a lovely buzz going. The market is a bit of a hassle and I think it lessens the bite a little. It wouldn’t be that bad, but no one gives you a good price (because you’re white), everyone yells at you to buy stuff (because you’re white), and people with arms full of groceries will ask you to buy them food (because you’re white). I needed a belt terribly, because my old one broke. I’ve lost weight here, so I spent all weekend hobbling around, hiking up my pants. I told a bunch of street kids to go find me one (a totally normal thing to do here) and I gave them a tip (not as normal). Then, in the market, I told them to get me some bell peppers. They brought me a crappy one, so I sent them to get another. I stupidly gave them the money before hand, and they didn’t come back. Fuckers.
My buzz ended, I returned and started cooking. In earlier conversation, Alena mentioned that every time people came to her house they watched movies on the projector, because they can’t do stuff like that at their sites. She said she has games and cards and no one ever uses them. That night, I made a bit of a point (but also because I really wanted to since I hadn’t played it in a long time) of playing rummy. I love rummy. I learned to play it in Ireland and we played it there all the time. Andrew and Alena are also fans. Amanda, who had arrived at that point (the PCVs were all going to a training session soon) slept. She could sleep through a riot, I swear. Well, I suppose not, at one point she woke up when I was yelling about the cards. It was one of the most fun nights I’ve had here. It certainly beats almost getting beaten up by a bunch of knackers******. So, for the past couple months, about three different places in the village have been blasting loud music at an absurd volume from about 7:30 in the morning to about 1:00 or 2:00 at night. It’s horrible. Most people don’t live near it. Except for us. It sucks. A lot. I swear, they think that speakers are supposed to crackle because they always play it at a volume that threatens to make the tube explode. At any rate, we finished our good wholesome fun and went to bed (a far cry from what my good friend Dano calls “whiskey day” back home). At that point, just as I lay down to go to a nice silent bed, Alena’s neighbor, who I hate hate hate, started blasting Celine Dion*******. I thought about the whole constant sensory bombardment associated with the modern world, and I told Andrew, “you know, maybe I’m a Luddite.”
So, I suppose here, since I have so much time to think, I’ve really though about our holidays and how we choose to spend them. I suppose one positive here, I’ve learned a lot about what I value. Not the things, ideas, or issues I value, I already knew that, but more like the “why, how, because of, in what way.” I dunno, this whole time writing this I wanted to work in the Get-up kids song “Holiday,” but I wasn’t able. I guess I just did. Maybe I can see you on holidays. Worlds away. I’ll never forget all our yesterdays. Lucky if I see you on holidays. Holidays, holidays.
* I remember when I lived in Ireland I was fairly embarrassed to be American. Here, I’m like (in Kiswahili), “hell no, I’m not European, I’m American. My father is American, my mother is American, my grandfather is American, my Grandmother is American, I’m and American*. It’s like saying, ‘oh you’re an African, you must be from Kenya.’” They usually respond “hell no, I’m from Tanzanian!” To that, I respond, “Yeah, well, I’m from America!” I don’t know if I have ever picked sides like that. I mean, yeah, Europeans and Americans have similar cultures, but they are far from the same. I mean many Americans have never been to Europe. I think a lot about the PC lingo Americans use, for example, “African-American.” I mean, one might say “what? African-American? Are you saying that because my skin is black? I’ve never been to Africa, I’m American.” And it’s true. They have this “Obama conga.” A conga is an element of traditional native dress, that uses pictures to show pictorially show something about them and they use them for everything, carrying children, water on their head, other stuff, or as a dress. If a conga has numbers, for example, it means the woman is educated. Anyway, so I had a conversation about this with a short term Austrian volunteer where I mentioned “the conga with a picture of Obama and two pictures of the continent of Africa is hilarious (unless you’re a wacko tea-bagger or something).” She often talked about (what I perceived as) her mostly academic knowledge of Africa. Never mind that I spoke much more Swahili, but whatever. Not only did she start to talk about how Africans (as a whole, mind you, not just Tanzanians) thought of Obama as an African, but she went further to basically say that Americans did too. Hell no, don’t lecture me about my own culture when you have never been to my country. I think the conga is hilarious, and I sure as hell think just about any American I might talk to would think the same, including Neo-Cons or Obama himself. The dude is American. Unless you are one of those psychos who patrols the Rio Grande with a shotgun, that is.
.
*** I hate defining someone based upon who they are/were/are dating, whatever, because it makes it seem I can’t appreciate them as separate entities (which I do). At that finite point in time, I knew them as together, so if I write about them the same way.
**** By the way, we made burritos at my request and it made me incredibly happy
***** Which, by the way, has been the only whiskey I have been able to drink in almost 7 months. Sigh.
****** See earlier blogs for reference.
******* It’s not just this incident, I really can’t stand the guy. He’s a teacher at Songea girls. I’ve met him like 4 times, and by the second he acted like I was his best friend he had not seen for years. I assume he is trying to butter me up so that I can find him a university in America or Europe (it doesn’t matter which) he can go to. I remember one time, he greeted Andrew and I when we were at Songea Girls, and he kept slapping my hands to emphasis his happiness. I had long, deep cuts in my hand from falling the night before. It hurt like hell and I was ready to punch him. So, yeah, this dude sucks.
