Dinner with the Maasai

Among the Maasai there is a tradition where the mother of a daughter who marries into a Maasai family cannot visit her daughter or her daughter’s new home until that daughter returns to visit her mother’s home. On Friday evening, I was privileged enough to see this return visit of a now-married daughter to the home of her mother. First let me explain that a fellow Peace Corps volunteer is staying in this home for his home stay, and that the father of this family is a good natured fellow with whom and in whose presence I am known for and to practice my Kiswahili with reckless abandon or concern for the consequences of a complex language wielded by a brain with 4 weeks of experience and a tongue further impaired by a bottle of Tanzanian beer (Safari brand).

At my previous visit to this home, such Kiswahili-by-trial-and-error resulted in hilarious consequences, though I cannot lay claim to the most memorable quotation from that visit. A fellow Peace Corps Volunteer intended to remark, “Ninatoka Marekani.” (I am from America) but was heard to remark “Nina tako Marekani” (I have an American backside).

The time which had elapsed since their daughter’s last visit home is the subject of some confusion. I was told she had not been home since June from another confused secondary source (my language coordinator, who also attended), but it was unclear if this meant she had not seen her mother for 4 months or 16 (this being October). This married woman brought with her a group of women numbering 6 in total, the oldest of whom dressed in fabric of the same purple-burgundy pattern, and a three month old son. I asked, in blundering Kiswahili, why no men had come, and learned that such was tradition.

Formal introductions were made before the assembled group, and light conversation followed. Sitting beside the returned daughter, I learned that she spoke 4 languages: Kiswahili, English, Kimaasai, and another tribal language. A brief ceremony began in which the daughter sat upon a stool and had her head and shoulders covered in patterned cloth. She then stood, and the same was done for her mother. Due to conversation, obscured line of vision, and general lack of knowledge of the significance of this ceremony, it should be noted that I may have neglected or created from nothing elements of this ceremony that are of central symbolic significance. Apologies.

Briefly thereafter and for reasons unclear to me, the two female members of our four member language group (the four white attendees of the party) began trying on the beautifully crafted necklaces of the Maasai women. I will not describe these necklaces further because I could not do them justice, but to note their large size and opulence. At this point, feeling neglected, I announced, “Ninaomba nguo.” (I request clothing.) Without further ado, I one purple burgundy cloth of same cut was tied over my shoulder, soon after followed by one about my waist. Yet I felt something was missing, having heard that all Maasai men carry knives. Announcing “…na kisu?” (…and knife?) I was soon brought a kitchen knife by the father of the home, and pictures were taken.

I then offered my flannel pattern collar shirt to the returned daughter, arguing with gestures that cross cultural exchange was in order. This offer was met with a terse “Hapana.” (No.) which I thought little of at the time. As night fell, water was passed in a pitcher, right hands were washed (the left hand being generally regarded as dirty, not only among the Maasai of Tanzania, owing to its task of wiping on visits to the bathroom. It is thus excluded from all dining activities, including the passing of food.). Bowls were heaped with baked bananas, stewed bananas (bananas are more akin to potatoes when cooked unripe, and surprisingly have very little sweetness when prepared in this way), meat, pilau (a dark rice mixed with meat), and watermelon. The Maasai declined to use the spoon and instead used the right hand for all consumption, a habit that is widely practiced in Tanzania, even by members of my host family, depending on the meal. In this way rice or ugali (a very thick, bland substance of mashed-potato like consistency and Play-Doh like taste which my tongue hopes never again to encounter) can be formed into a small ball and used as a scoop to trap sauce.

The meal completed, the beer given to all present was not enough to break linguistic and cultural barriers, and frequent, heavy, prolonged silences fell on the assembled group. Ever the wrecking ball of cross cultural exchange, I rose to the occasion and, knocking down seeming indestructible barriers, began attempting to say anything that came to mind, regardless of linguistic complexity or intelligibility, in Kiswahili. These included:

-Explaining to those present the merits of eschewing the term “Kiswahili” in favor of “The Kis” (pronounced Keeezzzzz), which sports far fewer syllables and is, to my mind, far easier on the ears.

-Communicating my level of language ability by noting that my language teacher was “tikitiki maji wa Kis” (watermelon of Kis) while I was, comparatively, “chungwa wa Kis” (orange of Kis), size being analogous to linguistic competence.

-At this point I was unable to help myself and, after reviewing previously assigned fruit ranks, attempted a joke at the expense of my fellow Peace Corps Volunteer Kris, assigning him the relative rank of “harage wa Kis” (bean of Kis).

Though I did see the Maasai present laughing from time to time, most of the laughter seemed to be on the side of my 3 fellow volunteers, our language coordinator, and the father of the family.

The dark walk home through winding dirt roads strewn with potholes prompted reflection. Our language advisor pointed out that, at a ceremony with much significance placed on clothing, my offer to the returned daughter to wear my shirt (that of a man, and not her husband, in front of her husbands mother, no less) might have been seen as inappropriate rather than good-natured dress-up. This may have explained the manner in which the offer was received. I was also informed that my attempt to communicate linguistic level by fruit analogy may have been frustrated by my final assignment, harage meaning not only bean, but also being a euphemism for the clitoris. It is unclear to me now how many of the visiting Maasai were privy to this information.