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
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