Does anyone really know where Timbuktu is? I would say most people don’t, but almost everyone knows that it is ffaaaaarrrrr. Well, Timbuktu is a city in Mali, here in Africa, not so far. So, instead of using Timbuktu to describe someplace that is very far, Tanzanians use a place called “Buza.” “Where is Buza?” you ask, I will tell you.
We were invited to our family’s house for the celebration house of our young brothers’ and sister’s first communion (Witness, James and John Mtenga). The first communion mass was amazing, first of all we were the only choir singing and so got to sit right up in front where we usually do, and watch all of the kids receive their First Communion. After the 4 hour mass, we led a procession outside, the entire packed and overflowing church following behind the First Communicans who were behind us. We sang and danced in the noontime sun to this house at the end of the street and waited there for the priest to arrive at the end of the entire procession. There we had Eucharistic Adoration for a few minutes and then did the same thing all the way back to the Parish Offices, waited a few minutes and then slowly went back into the Church. Once everyone was there, all of the children were given their own bible and rosary. By this time it was around 1:30 pm.
I ran home after our short meeting after mass and met the others ready to go to our first destination. We booked it to the Mtenga’s house and met them there with their house decorated with posters of Jesus and some small paper cut outs on the walls, Witness, James and John looked proud and were glowing when we congratulated them and shook their hands. We met some extended members of the family and were welcomed into the home just as we always are, as their own son and daughters. We get scolded by them as if we are their children and we are expected to participate in family functions as if we were their children.
As we were making small talk during the delicious lunch of pilau (spiced rice), I got into talking with the two uncles that were there about where they live. One said he lives in Mburahati, the town next to us, the other said he lives in Buza, its really far away, past the airport. The airport is used as a marking point, anything past the airport if worth a two day visit. I told him that I had never been there and he said we should come. Jokingly I said something like “of sure! We will come one day!.” And thus follows kidnapping number 3.
A few weeks ago, our friend Godi came over and told us that his uncle wanted us to come visit. We thought it was his uncle from Mburahati and so planned a day and knew it was going to be a somewhat long affair but would probably have some free time that day. We called Godi on the day of our visit and said that we would meet him at a place that was near Mburahati but he said that we were not going to Mburahati so we should go to his house first. Have you ever had that feeling that something is going to happen but you are afraid of saying it for fear that if you say it it will actually come true and if you don’t it won’t happen? This is what happened to me. In the back of my mind I was thinking that we weren’t going to Mburahati, that is too easy. I bet we are going to Buza. But I didn’t dare say anything because then it would actually come true. What foolishness, things like that come true even if you don’t say it out loud.
We met Godi and some of his siblings at his house, greeted his parents and then left for our long journey to Buza. We took the first dala dala (bus) to the end of the line, pushed and shoved our way through the crowd to find the next dala-dala which we also took to the end of the line. Then we walked. We walked until we were met by warm greetings from Godi’s uncle and aunt, saying that they were expecting us at 11 and it was now 1. We were quickly ushered inside and given much needed water to drink. We watched music videos from a choir for about 2 hours and then more music videos from other African Christian artists until we left.
We walked back up to the road and squeezed into a tiny dala dala that took us to the end of the line again and then another dala dala back to our home. On the way home we were informed that it was one of our friends birthdays and he was waiting for us at his home. We ran home, dropped our things off and ran to his house where he had an entire meal of more pilau waiting for us, just us. We sat with him, ate some more, drank some sodas and then also were fed the traditional birthday cake.
As usual, I had an amazing time that day. The day was long and full of surprises, but there were so many times during that day when I was awe-struck at the hospitality of strangers, at the beauty of friendship and family and at the sense of community that we have formed here. I oftentimes look around wherever I am and try to soak it all in. It is during these experiences, though tired, I constantly think of how blessed I am to be humbled by the people I know here. I don’t have words to express the joy I feel just sitting, talking and being with people. One major lesson that I have learned since being here is patience and flexibility. There was a point in my life where I would get upset if things didn’t go exactly as I had planned, I have come to learn that some of the next experiences in life come when plans go awry and when you just let loose and let yourself be, let yourself experience the pain of a situation by letting yourself be vulnerable, the joy of friendship when you spend hours and hours on end together, the beauty of the world when you pause in the midst of craziness.
I guess the name that I chose for my blog, “Live the Life You Love” still stands true for my experience here.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Kidnapping # 1
We use the term “kidnapping” quite often here. For those of you who have been blessed to experience the over-generous, extremely humbling hospitality of people from other cultures, you may have an idea of what I’m talking about.
As a community, we have been kidnapped many times. Often this occurs when we have been invited over a friends house at a certain time and expect to be back 4 hours later but the plans have changed without us knowing and we are brought around to 3 other families houses through their banana farms and fed many more times than we were prepared for (Christmas 2008), other times it is a simple pro-longed visit with extended family members who have traveled a long way and so as watoto wazuri “good children” it is our responsibility to stay. Let me add that none of these kidnappings have been extremely unpleasant or without people we love and care about.
Our choir had been preparing to go to another parish to sing for a long time, I’d say at least two months. At practice the word “Buguruni” would be thrown out about every third song we sang. I got the idea that this was going to be a big deal. As the date got closer, we had practice every day. We practiced the most impossible songs we could find to sing and then decided to put next to impossible dance moves with them. It was all going well. After one last minute switch of the date, the actual day was getting very close. We whipped out our purple couch cushion uniforms from last year (this brutally heavy purple fake satin with a white flower pinned to the front of the dress – they were going to choose pink last year but everyone got such a kick out of saying that Caroline and I were the same color and so it wasn’t going to look good.)
The day of the show/kidnapping: We were asked to meet at the church at 6:30 in the morning, still having my good old American punctuality I arrived 5 minutes before and was the only one there. I actually left a friend behind because I was going to be late. Slowly people arrived and at about 6:45 the bus arrived and we left. We sang out hearts out the entire 7 minutes it took to get to the other church and of course I, who was sitting near the window, was pointed out multiple times because first, I’m white, second, I’m wearing a ridiculous dress, and third, we are singing so loudly people hear us over their own music.
We arrive at the church and I seriously wish I had a camera. The other choir from the church we were going to was waiting on the street singing a welcome song. Did they look smart. They were all wearing long sleeve black button up dress shirts, black trousers or long skirt, black shoes, a white and black diamond checkered sweater vest and a black fedora with black, white and red string tied around it. Their uniforms were accented by a red tie. Seriously. I felt like I was in a speak-easy in the 1930s. It took us about 30 minutes to walk to where we were supposed to be, to line up and to enter the church. I’m always fascinated at the reactions I get when I go places, whether it is people trying to speak English to me or if it is just a blank, curious stare, I can always tell whether there are other white people living nearby or not, most likely they don’t.
We sang so well during the Mass and were tired after the first mass. I thought we were done. Nope, we had to stay and sing the second mass. We sang well but not as well as the first one because we were tired. Second mass done, let’s go. Not so fast. The choir has invited our choir for tea. I was appreciative of this because I was parched and hungry and cold. The hot tea and mandazi (doughtnuts) warmed and filled me up. Ok, time to go now. For some reason we waited and waited and waited. During this period of waiting, all of the seats and benches in the newly built church were put away, I became the topic of conversation between both choirs about how I am going to get married here (I was promised to a choir member’s brother) and then somehow got to talking on segregation in America, we were fed oranges an I was tested in my Swahili by a man walking by by him greeting me in every single way he could and seeing how I responded (I passed). Finally the bus arrived, but by now I had found out that we weren’t going back to our parish. I should note that it was now 2 pm.
We took two buses (the other choir joined us) and we went to the Msimbazi Center, a large area with multiple large halls for events. We were dropped off at this already set up hall and were asked to sit in a certain area, we were going to wait for the other guests to arrive. I made my friend Thadei sit next to me because he is one of the only members who speaks English and I knew this was going to be a long evening. We were asked to intermingle with the other choir members so we looked like a beautiful array of purple, black and white. Slowly other people started to come and then each choir sang a few songs while we waited for the guest of honor to come. Around 4:30 pm the guest of honor shows up, the Head of the Buguruni Parish. Turns out that this is a fundraiser for the choir that invited us to sing at their church. The other guests that came were the teachers and heads of other choirs in Dar. By the time I realized all of this, all I had eaten and drunk the entire day was that tea and mandazi and half an orange. This is one of the troubles of being kidnapped. After we sang a few more songs and an auction started to see who would pay the most money to open the champagne, we were told to get on line for food. The rest of the evening went well, I was only called out two more times for being white, and I thoroughly enjoyed being with the choir for the entire day. Whenever a new group would say how much they were donating, everyone got up and danced to the music that was being played.
Around 7 pm we prepared to leave. Many women in the choir had to leave early because their husbands expected them home at a certain time and they had to cook dinner for their families. We left the Msimbazi Center around 7:30 pm and got back home in Mabibo around 8:00 pm. I had planned on preparing my lessons for Monday on Sunday afternoon, instead I went to sleep at 8:30 and had a “movie day” in class on Monday (not really a movie day, that’s hard to do without electricity, a tv and movies, but we reviewed what we had learned the previous week).
This was by far the worst, and best kidnapping I have experienced.
As a community, we have been kidnapped many times. Often this occurs when we have been invited over a friends house at a certain time and expect to be back 4 hours later but the plans have changed without us knowing and we are brought around to 3 other families houses through their banana farms and fed many more times than we were prepared for (Christmas 2008), other times it is a simple pro-longed visit with extended family members who have traveled a long way and so as watoto wazuri “good children” it is our responsibility to stay. Let me add that none of these kidnappings have been extremely unpleasant or without people we love and care about.
Our choir had been preparing to go to another parish to sing for a long time, I’d say at least two months. At practice the word “Buguruni” would be thrown out about every third song we sang. I got the idea that this was going to be a big deal. As the date got closer, we had practice every day. We practiced the most impossible songs we could find to sing and then decided to put next to impossible dance moves with them. It was all going well. After one last minute switch of the date, the actual day was getting very close. We whipped out our purple couch cushion uniforms from last year (this brutally heavy purple fake satin with a white flower pinned to the front of the dress – they were going to choose pink last year but everyone got such a kick out of saying that Caroline and I were the same color and so it wasn’t going to look good.)
The day of the show/kidnapping: We were asked to meet at the church at 6:30 in the morning, still having my good old American punctuality I arrived 5 minutes before and was the only one there. I actually left a friend behind because I was going to be late. Slowly people arrived and at about 6:45 the bus arrived and we left. We sang out hearts out the entire 7 minutes it took to get to the other church and of course I, who was sitting near the window, was pointed out multiple times because first, I’m white, second, I’m wearing a ridiculous dress, and third, we are singing so loudly people hear us over their own music.
We arrive at the church and I seriously wish I had a camera. The other choir from the church we were going to was waiting on the street singing a welcome song. Did they look smart. They were all wearing long sleeve black button up dress shirts, black trousers or long skirt, black shoes, a white and black diamond checkered sweater vest and a black fedora with black, white and red string tied around it. Their uniforms were accented by a red tie. Seriously. I felt like I was in a speak-easy in the 1930s. It took us about 30 minutes to walk to where we were supposed to be, to line up and to enter the church. I’m always fascinated at the reactions I get when I go places, whether it is people trying to speak English to me or if it is just a blank, curious stare, I can always tell whether there are other white people living nearby or not, most likely they don’t.
We sang so well during the Mass and were tired after the first mass. I thought we were done. Nope, we had to stay and sing the second mass. We sang well but not as well as the first one because we were tired. Second mass done, let’s go. Not so fast. The choir has invited our choir for tea. I was appreciative of this because I was parched and hungry and cold. The hot tea and mandazi (doughtnuts) warmed and filled me up. Ok, time to go now. For some reason we waited and waited and waited. During this period of waiting, all of the seats and benches in the newly built church were put away, I became the topic of conversation between both choirs about how I am going to get married here (I was promised to a choir member’s brother) and then somehow got to talking on segregation in America, we were fed oranges an I was tested in my Swahili by a man walking by by him greeting me in every single way he could and seeing how I responded (I passed). Finally the bus arrived, but by now I had found out that we weren’t going back to our parish. I should note that it was now 2 pm.
We took two buses (the other choir joined us) and we went to the Msimbazi Center, a large area with multiple large halls for events. We were dropped off at this already set up hall and were asked to sit in a certain area, we were going to wait for the other guests to arrive. I made my friend Thadei sit next to me because he is one of the only members who speaks English and I knew this was going to be a long evening. We were asked to intermingle with the other choir members so we looked like a beautiful array of purple, black and white. Slowly other people started to come and then each choir sang a few songs while we waited for the guest of honor to come. Around 4:30 pm the guest of honor shows up, the Head of the Buguruni Parish. Turns out that this is a fundraiser for the choir that invited us to sing at their church. The other guests that came were the teachers and heads of other choirs in Dar. By the time I realized all of this, all I had eaten and drunk the entire day was that tea and mandazi and half an orange. This is one of the troubles of being kidnapped. After we sang a few more songs and an auction started to see who would pay the most money to open the champagne, we were told to get on line for food. The rest of the evening went well, I was only called out two more times for being white, and I thoroughly enjoyed being with the choir for the entire day. Whenever a new group would say how much they were donating, everyone got up and danced to the music that was being played.
Around 7 pm we prepared to leave. Many women in the choir had to leave early because their husbands expected them home at a certain time and they had to cook dinner for their families. We left the Msimbazi Center around 7:30 pm and got back home in Mabibo around 8:00 pm. I had planned on preparing my lessons for Monday on Sunday afternoon, instead I went to sleep at 8:30 and had a “movie day” in class on Monday (not really a movie day, that’s hard to do without electricity, a tv and movies, but we reviewed what we had learned the previous week).
This was by far the worst, and best kidnapping I have experienced.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Tangu Zamani! Since a long time ago!
I apologize sana (very much) for my negligence in posting blogs. To make up for the lack of stories and snapshots of my life, I am currently writing up the stories and experiences that I have had in the past half year that I believe will interest you all. Note: these are in no particular order.
I hope you all will still read them!
Emily
I hope you all will still read them!
Emily
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Siku ya Tamasha
It was the big day of the show. Our kwaya was singing at second Mass which started at 9 am, we had to be at our kwaya teachers house by 8:30 to practice. We all arrived wearing our awesome new uniforms, lavender "satin" skirts and blouses with a sweatheart neckline, a white sash around our waists with a white "rose" and tails hanging down. The skirt has a slit up the side with a white underlay. The woman all braided their hair with rasta and the men wore their new cream colors suits with their lavender skirts. We looked "smart sana" - very smart. There are five choirs at our parish, three at the main church and two at the outstation church, but we all joined together to sing at second Mass.
After second Mass we all gathered in our own choir groups and quicky practiced one last song before the competition was to begin. A little background info - we have been practicing songs for weeks and weeks. Neither Caroline nor I knew what we were practicing these songs for, Christmas maybe? Advent? Feast of Christ the King? We were told that we needed to get our uniforms by the 28th because we were wearing them on the last Sunday in November.
We suddenly realize how serious everyone is taking this event as we separate into our kwayas and sit down, however we still have no idea what is going on. Eventually they announce a line up. Kwaya ya Inyasi Loyola (St Ignatius Choir) will be singing fourth. Oh goodness, this is a competition. They announce that all choirs will sing four songs, an entrance song, one common song (Kwa Nino Leo Mnaimba Kwa Furaha), one traditional song, and then one more African traditional song. We will be judged (by the priests) and then there will be an award. My palms start to get sweaty and my heart starts racing. The first choir goes and sings well, the second one goes and the third one follows. Its time for Inyasi. They call us up and we get into our lines to dance in. Good thing Caroline and I were on the ends of the soprano and alto voices because otherwise I don't think anyone would have seen us (insert extreme sarcasm here). We danced in to an amazing song called "Mvua Inarutubisha Vitu Vyote" (The rain falls down on everything). Next was the song everybody was singing "Kwa Nini Leo Mnaimba Kwa Furaha" (For today you sing with happiness), followed by "Hosana" by Handel, and ended with "Ni Mwanadamu" (I am a person". This last song was accompanied by wanakwaya (choir members) using a kinu (a grinder tool) to make a beat and a stool being swiveled on top of a pot, while the rest of us did a traditional dance from the Fipa tribe. We were in a U shape, and as I mentioned before Caroline and I were the book ends, right in front so everybody could see the wazungu dancing the traditional african dance. I was so relieved when it was over, however Im not going to lie, my instinctual performance mode was in full gear as I was singing in front of a packed church.
We sat down and listened to the last choir sing. Everyone did very well, and they asked each choir to stand up and sing one more song. We awaited the results with anticipation. They started by announcing the last place kwaya, then fourth, the third, and then second. We were none of those. We received 230 points out of 300 points, the highest of all the choirs!!! We were the winners!!! ..or so we thought....They told us to stand up and be recognized because we performed the best out of all the choirs, HOWEVER, our teachers made a mistake and broke one of the rules. We were only allowed to have one conductor and our teachers switched halfway through. So we were deducted ten points leaving us in third place. Turns out that the first and second places get prizes, we ended up getting nothing but "pole sana" (very sorry) from everyone watching. As we walked home, literally everyone we walked by asked us how we did in the Siku ya Tamasha (the dar of the show). We said "tulishindwa" (we were overcome), but we explained what happened. Really we know we were the true winners, and we still pride ourselves on our stellar performance. There is always next year...
After second Mass we all gathered in our own choir groups and quicky practiced one last song before the competition was to begin. A little background info - we have been practicing songs for weeks and weeks. Neither Caroline nor I knew what we were practicing these songs for, Christmas maybe? Advent? Feast of Christ the King? We were told that we needed to get our uniforms by the 28th because we were wearing them on the last Sunday in November.
We suddenly realize how serious everyone is taking this event as we separate into our kwayas and sit down, however we still have no idea what is going on. Eventually they announce a line up. Kwaya ya Inyasi Loyola (St Ignatius Choir) will be singing fourth. Oh goodness, this is a competition. They announce that all choirs will sing four songs, an entrance song, one common song (Kwa Nino Leo Mnaimba Kwa Furaha), one traditional song, and then one more African traditional song. We will be judged (by the priests) and then there will be an award. My palms start to get sweaty and my heart starts racing. The first choir goes and sings well, the second one goes and the third one follows. Its time for Inyasi. They call us up and we get into our lines to dance in. Good thing Caroline and I were on the ends of the soprano and alto voices because otherwise I don't think anyone would have seen us (insert extreme sarcasm here). We danced in to an amazing song called "Mvua Inarutubisha Vitu Vyote" (The rain falls down on everything). Next was the song everybody was singing "Kwa Nini Leo Mnaimba Kwa Furaha" (For today you sing with happiness), followed by "Hosana" by Handel, and ended with "Ni Mwanadamu" (I am a person". This last song was accompanied by wanakwaya (choir members) using a kinu (a grinder tool) to make a beat and a stool being swiveled on top of a pot, while the rest of us did a traditional dance from the Fipa tribe. We were in a U shape, and as I mentioned before Caroline and I were the book ends, right in front so everybody could see the wazungu dancing the traditional african dance. I was so relieved when it was over, however Im not going to lie, my instinctual performance mode was in full gear as I was singing in front of a packed church.
We sat down and listened to the last choir sing. Everyone did very well, and they asked each choir to stand up and sing one more song. We awaited the results with anticipation. They started by announcing the last place kwaya, then fourth, the third, and then second. We were none of those. We received 230 points out of 300 points, the highest of all the choirs!!! We were the winners!!! ..or so we thought....They told us to stand up and be recognized because we performed the best out of all the choirs, HOWEVER, our teachers made a mistake and broke one of the rules. We were only allowed to have one conductor and our teachers switched halfway through. So we were deducted ten points leaving us in third place. Turns out that the first and second places get prizes, we ended up getting nothing but "pole sana" (very sorry) from everyone watching. As we walked home, literally everyone we walked by asked us how we did in the Siku ya Tamasha (the dar of the show). We said "tulishindwa" (we were overcome), but we explained what happened. Really we know we were the true winners, and we still pride ourselves on our stellar performance. There is always next year...
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Kwaya
Caroline and I recently joined one of the choirs at our Church. Our choir, or kwaya, is called the Ignatius Loyola Kwaya and we practice every Monday, Tuesday, and Saturdays and then sing at one of the two Masses on Sundays. We have quickly become a part of the Ignatius kwaya family, and are now expected to attend all of the events and trips thats the kwaya goes on. For example, after signing on Sundays, we go and visit the sick. Each week we visit a different person, but each week no matter how long Mass is, the visit centers me and helps me reflect on my time here. My first visit we went to a member of the kwaya who was sick. We stood outside her house and sang songs for a little while, then we went to another house and did the same thing. It really is a very simple act, however the visible joy that it brings the people we visit makes the entire day worthwhile.
Two sundays ago was Confirmation. The week before all three kwayas from the Church practiced together and prepared for the Auxilary Bishop to come. Practices were long and confusing as all of the songs are in Kiswahili and they were all new to me. As I struggled to learn the songs, I also struggled to obtain the proper uniform we were all required to wear (white long sleeve shirt and a black shirt). A friend helped me out and surprised me with what I needed. It was not quite the same with the songs. It was Iganitius kwaya's turn to sing at Misa ya Kwanza (First Mass at 7 am), so we all were there for the two hour long Mass, dancing and singing. Then we had a short break and lined up for Misa ya Pili (second Mass at 9 am). The candidates lined up dressed in their red and white robes, hair all done up in wigs and silk flowers, high heels, makeup, the works. By this time the sun was beating down on us and there was no shade to be found. We started singing a song I had never heard before and this started to trend of the day (dance and move my lips like I am singing). I should also include that I had a cold the entire week before and was unable to hear very well because of congestion, so even attemtping to sing would have been painful for the people around me. After about a half hour of dancing and singing in our line behind the candidates, we processed into the Church and sat behind the candidates.
Well, let me tell you, this Mass was ther longest, the most lively, and the most celebratory Mass I believe I have ever been to. We did not leave the Church until 1:30 in the afternoon, the Mass lasted 4 1/2 hours. The length of the Mass is just a side note compared to the details of the Mass. The candidates has pratices dances to some of the songs and so at different times they would stand up and perform a choreographed dance, all 300 of them. The kwaya was definitely put to shame. We continued our dancing and singing, but were definitely overpowered by the excited kids. The Bishop met with each of the kids and their sponsors, blessed them, and then at the end of the Mass took pictures with all of them. They danced up the aisle during the offeratory (they usually do this but this time it was extra extravagant and beautiful), in the procession they had a child sitting on the shoulders of a man holding the lectionary high in the air, they presented gifts of bananas, water, bread, the collection (or sadaka), and many other things. Even though we were all fading towards the end, we were all rejuvenated by the excitement and celebration of the day.
The next day I had to attend a Misa ya Rehemu, or Mass of Mercy, for a man who had died the day before. I have never been to one of these here but the kwaya was singing at it so I had to go. I snuck in the back as i was coming from school and they motioned for me to come sit up in the front with them. I arrived just in time to view the body. The coffin was so small and narrow almost seemingly for a child, yet it was an old man who had passed away. Coffins are sold on the side of the road here, literally right next to beds and armoirs. They have bows wrapped around them. Life here is fragile. At the Mass there were women wailing, people comforting, mourning, and trying to accept. It was difficult to watch and experience, especially since the day before, right in the exact same spot, many children received the gifts of the Holy Spirit through Confirmation. It was a very joyous occasion and now 24 hours later we are mourning. The people need the Church. I need the Church. I have found a warm and welcoming family there, especially with the kwaya. I see Mshauri on the street and greet him, Thedei waved at us while we were on the dala yesterday, I work with another member, David, Mama Pascalina waves hello every day when I pass her house on the way to school as does Agnes. My kwaya is my family.
Two sundays ago was Confirmation. The week before all three kwayas from the Church practiced together and prepared for the Auxilary Bishop to come. Practices were long and confusing as all of the songs are in Kiswahili and they were all new to me. As I struggled to learn the songs, I also struggled to obtain the proper uniform we were all required to wear (white long sleeve shirt and a black shirt). A friend helped me out and surprised me with what I needed. It was not quite the same with the songs. It was Iganitius kwaya's turn to sing at Misa ya Kwanza (First Mass at 7 am), so we all were there for the two hour long Mass, dancing and singing. Then we had a short break and lined up for Misa ya Pili (second Mass at 9 am). The candidates lined up dressed in their red and white robes, hair all done up in wigs and silk flowers, high heels, makeup, the works. By this time the sun was beating down on us and there was no shade to be found. We started singing a song I had never heard before and this started to trend of the day (dance and move my lips like I am singing). I should also include that I had a cold the entire week before and was unable to hear very well because of congestion, so even attemtping to sing would have been painful for the people around me. After about a half hour of dancing and singing in our line behind the candidates, we processed into the Church and sat behind the candidates.
Well, let me tell you, this Mass was ther longest, the most lively, and the most celebratory Mass I believe I have ever been to. We did not leave the Church until 1:30 in the afternoon, the Mass lasted 4 1/2 hours. The length of the Mass is just a side note compared to the details of the Mass. The candidates has pratices dances to some of the songs and so at different times they would stand up and perform a choreographed dance, all 300 of them. The kwaya was definitely put to shame. We continued our dancing and singing, but were definitely overpowered by the excited kids. The Bishop met with each of the kids and their sponsors, blessed them, and then at the end of the Mass took pictures with all of them. They danced up the aisle during the offeratory (they usually do this but this time it was extra extravagant and beautiful), in the procession they had a child sitting on the shoulders of a man holding the lectionary high in the air, they presented gifts of bananas, water, bread, the collection (or sadaka), and many other things. Even though we were all fading towards the end, we were all rejuvenated by the excitement and celebration of the day.
The next day I had to attend a Misa ya Rehemu, or Mass of Mercy, for a man who had died the day before. I have never been to one of these here but the kwaya was singing at it so I had to go. I snuck in the back as i was coming from school and they motioned for me to come sit up in the front with them. I arrived just in time to view the body. The coffin was so small and narrow almost seemingly for a child, yet it was an old man who had passed away. Coffins are sold on the side of the road here, literally right next to beds and armoirs. They have bows wrapped around them. Life here is fragile. At the Mass there were women wailing, people comforting, mourning, and trying to accept. It was difficult to watch and experience, especially since the day before, right in the exact same spot, many children received the gifts of the Holy Spirit through Confirmation. It was a very joyous occasion and now 24 hours later we are mourning. The people need the Church. I need the Church. I have found a warm and welcoming family there, especially with the kwaya. I see Mshauri on the street and greet him, Thedei waved at us while we were on the dala yesterday, I work with another member, David, Mama Pascalina waves hello every day when I pass her house on the way to school as does Agnes. My kwaya is my family.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
I Love Clean Sheet Day
The feeling of crawling into bed after you put on clean sheets is almost unbeatable I'd argue. The tightness over the mattress, the coolness of the sheets, aaahhhhhhh. I have always enjoyed this (as I believe many people do), clean sheet day here in Tanzania has taken on a new meaning. After waking up early on a Saturday morning and spending two hours doing laundry, having clean clothes and clean sheets is quite an accomplishment. While I still walk away with battle wounds (raw knuckles and dry hands), knowing that I washed all of my clothes in buckets by hand leaves me with a feeling of pride. I washed my sheets yesterday morning and let them hang out in thet hot sun to dry. I went to check on them later and saw that only one of my two sets made it through the entire process unscathed, a bird pooped on one of my sheets so those had to be rewashed. Washing sheets and clothes used to be as simple as pouring some soap into a machine and turning some knobs. I now walk away sunburned and sore.
Things in my life here may not be as easy, fast or simple as they once were, but once they are finished I feel as if I have completed a great task. Sometimes when it is my turn to cook dinner I think about how nice it would be to open a box of rice and pour it into the water and wait a few minutes and then its done! Or rinsing vegetables under the tap water and then being able to eat them. Here, a simple meal of rice and veggies can take over an hour to prepare. Sorting the rice to take out the rocks, straw, dirt and bugs is a tedious job, having to heat the vegetables is also somewhat tedious, however the alternative of typhoid forces us to continue to do this. Beans have to be cleaned and soaked, no opening a ajr of beans and heating them up on the stove for us, it takes about two hours to cook beans. When we run out of water in our makeshift "running water tank" bucket showers suffice.
Don't get me wrong. This is not a complaining post. I started to think about these things when I realized how much work goes into everything here. The quick way that I was used to donig things at home does not exist here. These are actually the moments when I have the most fun, friends coming to help cook, practicing swahili over sorting rice, having dinner by candlelight when the power goes out. COming back to my original point, coming from a place where I can use a beater to mix ingredients in a cake, pop oatmeal in a microwave and have it be ready in 30 seconds, or high speed internet - having to spend 2-3 hours cooking a simple meal makes me feel like I have accomplished something great but it also makes me very appreciative of the hard work of the Tanzanians here. Everything takes a long time to do. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing, everything. To do all of these things on top of raising a family, finding a job or going to work, living with the realities of life here (which I am slowly seeing more and more of and as I see it life here is not fair), is more difficult than I can imagine.
We went to a friends house for dinner two nights ago. They don't have electricity so as it got dark the room became pitch black. They brought out an oil lamp and we ate dinner by that light. Our friend spent literally all day preparing this meal for us, as it takes a long time to cook over hot coals. This is not an exaggeration, he cooked pilau (spiced rice), meat and vegetables and I have no doubt that when he said he cooked all day, he literally cooked all day. Having someone do this for us shows me how much our friendship means to them. It is a sacrifice to spend all of these hours doing something like preparing a meal for other people. It is a sign of love and the "karibu" hospitality found here. People will go out of their way to make sure you are feeling welcome, and if its a good friend you can bet that they will pour themselves into doing something for you.
As I go to sleep on my new clean sheets, I feel accomplished on my own small tasks of washing my sheets and cooking a meal, how also extremely humbled by these experiences. I get a glimpse into what the hard work must be like for people here, but it is only a glimpse. Our friend who cooked us dinner knows about the sacrifices that have to be made, the time that has to be spent on every day chores. The Mamas who carry their children on their back as they sell chapate and mandazi in the morning know the hard work of every day life, the children washing their clothes in the dirty river know the unfairness and the harshness of life. My small experiences elevate the respect I have for the hard workers here to a new level. I thought I knew what hard work was, but after having seen how some of our friends live here my previous thoughts about hard work have been reshaped. I only get to experience the small accomplishments I mentioned before, however, I don't think I can go to sleep on clean sheets again without being grateful for the blessings God has placed in my life and the priviledge of being and knowing life here in Africa.
Thank you for clean sheet day.
Things in my life here may not be as easy, fast or simple as they once were, but once they are finished I feel as if I have completed a great task. Sometimes when it is my turn to cook dinner I think about how nice it would be to open a box of rice and pour it into the water and wait a few minutes and then its done! Or rinsing vegetables under the tap water and then being able to eat them. Here, a simple meal of rice and veggies can take over an hour to prepare. Sorting the rice to take out the rocks, straw, dirt and bugs is a tedious job, having to heat the vegetables is also somewhat tedious, however the alternative of typhoid forces us to continue to do this. Beans have to be cleaned and soaked, no opening a ajr of beans and heating them up on the stove for us, it takes about two hours to cook beans. When we run out of water in our makeshift "running water tank" bucket showers suffice.
Don't get me wrong. This is not a complaining post. I started to think about these things when I realized how much work goes into everything here. The quick way that I was used to donig things at home does not exist here. These are actually the moments when I have the most fun, friends coming to help cook, practicing swahili over sorting rice, having dinner by candlelight when the power goes out. COming back to my original point, coming from a place where I can use a beater to mix ingredients in a cake, pop oatmeal in a microwave and have it be ready in 30 seconds, or high speed internet - having to spend 2-3 hours cooking a simple meal makes me feel like I have accomplished something great but it also makes me very appreciative of the hard work of the Tanzanians here. Everything takes a long time to do. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing, everything. To do all of these things on top of raising a family, finding a job or going to work, living with the realities of life here (which I am slowly seeing more and more of and as I see it life here is not fair), is more difficult than I can imagine.
We went to a friends house for dinner two nights ago. They don't have electricity so as it got dark the room became pitch black. They brought out an oil lamp and we ate dinner by that light. Our friend spent literally all day preparing this meal for us, as it takes a long time to cook over hot coals. This is not an exaggeration, he cooked pilau (spiced rice), meat and vegetables and I have no doubt that when he said he cooked all day, he literally cooked all day. Having someone do this for us shows me how much our friendship means to them. It is a sacrifice to spend all of these hours doing something like preparing a meal for other people. It is a sign of love and the "karibu" hospitality found here. People will go out of their way to make sure you are feeling welcome, and if its a good friend you can bet that they will pour themselves into doing something for you.
As I go to sleep on my new clean sheets, I feel accomplished on my own small tasks of washing my sheets and cooking a meal, how also extremely humbled by these experiences. I get a glimpse into what the hard work must be like for people here, but it is only a glimpse. Our friend who cooked us dinner knows about the sacrifices that have to be made, the time that has to be spent on every day chores. The Mamas who carry their children on their back as they sell chapate and mandazi in the morning know the hard work of every day life, the children washing their clothes in the dirty river know the unfairness and the harshness of life. My small experiences elevate the respect I have for the hard workers here to a new level. I thought I knew what hard work was, but after having seen how some of our friends live here my previous thoughts about hard work have been reshaped. I only get to experience the small accomplishments I mentioned before, however, I don't think I can go to sleep on clean sheets again without being grateful for the blessings God has placed in my life and the priviledge of being and knowing life here in Africa.
Thank you for clean sheet day.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
It's a Good Thing I Brought my Swiss Army Knife to Africa...
My Swiss Army knife came in handy yesterday during the preparations for my birthday party. My community mates and I planned on having people over in the afternoon for some chakula (food) and piga story (telling stories).
Before this I should share how I woke up. Starting at 3 am, the rooster who lives literally 3 feet from my room began crowing. Not only did this rooster crow, but all of the roosters in Mabibo decided to have a mini convention and crow at different intervals. After trying to sleep until at least 6:30, I opened my door t streamers o magazine cut outs of celebrities hanging from my door. Nicholas, Caroline, and Christen surprised me with these hilarious pictures of random people along with a happy birthday sign on my door and some other notes attached to the wall. This was going to be a good day!
Slowly people started trickling in around 4, which is actually early since we said it is starting at 3. Nicholas, Caroline and our friend Davey went to get the potatoes for the chips we were going to make. Too many hands and not enough knives, this is where the Swiss Army knife comes in. Christen and I whip ours out and what do you know! We have six people sitting on our front porch peeling many kilos of potatoes and slicing them into french fry wedges. As more people come, the cooking goes quicker and soon enough we are frying all of the chips. Whenever we have a party at our house, we usually cook chips and katchumbali (a vegetable mixture) because its relatively easy to make for a lot of people and they all help cook it. So the fire was set up outside over some charcoal on the ground, the potatoes cooked in about an hour and a half and around 8 pm dinner was ready. We all sat in our living room, 14 of us in total I believe, and the MC, Jeflo, began the evening. Tanzanian birthdays, as I mentioned in a previous post, have a cake feeding part. If you remember, this is my absolute favvvooorrite part, NOT. I loathe this part of the parties because it can be extremely awkward depending on if you know the person feeding you, if they are joking around or being serious, and if you know the other people there. But this time because it was my birthday, I got to feed all of my friends. So I cut the cake (Caroline made a chocolate coconut cake - it was delicious!), into tiny pieces and started to make my way around the room feeding each guest a piece on a toothpick. Not awkward for me, but awkward for some of them!!! Then at the end a few people fed me cake, not too bad because I had done it to all them first. So then after the cake feeding comes the actual dinner (nothing like having dessert before dinner!). The mtoto (child), aka the birthday person, goes first so I got my chips and katchumbali and then everybody else followed. After dinner there is a speech making part to the party, so our MC got up and directed the whole thing. He announced that this was the time for saying any words that they wish to me and wishing me luck in the next year. Slowly, one by one everybody got up and said something. Keep in mind that this whole evening is in Swahili, and some of these people I have only met a few times, one of them I only met one evening for a few hours but he came to my party! Phew, that was finished, I received many blessings from my friends and many nice things were said, but again it was in Swahili so I didn't catch all of it. My favorite part of the whole evening was what happened last. We turned up the music and had a legit dance party in our living room...around the coffee table. Listening to Jay Z, Beyonce, P Square, Rihanna, don't forget the Celine Dion and Shania Twain every once in a while, while dancing in your one small section of the room, watching our friends check themselves out in the mirror and realizing that this was actually happening was the absolute best part of my day. Everyone was having such a good time and we were all together. Thats what a birthday should be.
Times like these make me so thankful for the family I have formed here. These people are not just my friends, but they are the ones we celebrate good times with and commiserate over bad times. While I am away from my own family back at home, celebrations like birthdays and holidays, times when we ge together with our friends and family remind me that I am definitely living the life I love.
Before this I should share how I woke up. Starting at 3 am, the rooster who lives literally 3 feet from my room began crowing. Not only did this rooster crow, but all of the roosters in Mabibo decided to have a mini convention and crow at different intervals. After trying to sleep until at least 6:30, I opened my door t streamers o magazine cut outs of celebrities hanging from my door. Nicholas, Caroline, and Christen surprised me with these hilarious pictures of random people along with a happy birthday sign on my door and some other notes attached to the wall. This was going to be a good day!
Slowly people started trickling in around 4, which is actually early since we said it is starting at 3. Nicholas, Caroline and our friend Davey went to get the potatoes for the chips we were going to make. Too many hands and not enough knives, this is where the Swiss Army knife comes in. Christen and I whip ours out and what do you know! We have six people sitting on our front porch peeling many kilos of potatoes and slicing them into french fry wedges. As more people come, the cooking goes quicker and soon enough we are frying all of the chips. Whenever we have a party at our house, we usually cook chips and katchumbali (a vegetable mixture) because its relatively easy to make for a lot of people and they all help cook it. So the fire was set up outside over some charcoal on the ground, the potatoes cooked in about an hour and a half and around 8 pm dinner was ready. We all sat in our living room, 14 of us in total I believe, and the MC, Jeflo, began the evening. Tanzanian birthdays, as I mentioned in a previous post, have a cake feeding part. If you remember, this is my absolute favvvooorrite part, NOT. I loathe this part of the parties because it can be extremely awkward depending on if you know the person feeding you, if they are joking around or being serious, and if you know the other people there. But this time because it was my birthday, I got to feed all of my friends. So I cut the cake (Caroline made a chocolate coconut cake - it was delicious!), into tiny pieces and started to make my way around the room feeding each guest a piece on a toothpick. Not awkward for me, but awkward for some of them!!! Then at the end a few people fed me cake, not too bad because I had done it to all them first. So then after the cake feeding comes the actual dinner (nothing like having dessert before dinner!). The mtoto (child), aka the birthday person, goes first so I got my chips and katchumbali and then everybody else followed. After dinner there is a speech making part to the party, so our MC got up and directed the whole thing. He announced that this was the time for saying any words that they wish to me and wishing me luck in the next year. Slowly, one by one everybody got up and said something. Keep in mind that this whole evening is in Swahili, and some of these people I have only met a few times, one of them I only met one evening for a few hours but he came to my party! Phew, that was finished, I received many blessings from my friends and many nice things were said, but again it was in Swahili so I didn't catch all of it. My favorite part of the whole evening was what happened last. We turned up the music and had a legit dance party in our living room...around the coffee table. Listening to Jay Z, Beyonce, P Square, Rihanna, don't forget the Celine Dion and Shania Twain every once in a while, while dancing in your one small section of the room, watching our friends check themselves out in the mirror and realizing that this was actually happening was the absolute best part of my day. Everyone was having such a good time and we were all together. Thats what a birthday should be.
Times like these make me so thankful for the family I have formed here. These people are not just my friends, but they are the ones we celebrate good times with and commiserate over bad times. While I am away from my own family back at home, celebrations like birthdays and holidays, times when we ge together with our friends and family remind me that I am definitely living the life I love.
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