*Here are some items that I wanted to post during training but never got around to.*

Short Medley

Some observations suddenly and sharply snap me back to the reality that I am no longer in the United States. Several of these follow:

-When I first arrived in the home of my familia, a Brittney Spears VCD was playing. At least ten Britney music videos later, more were yet to come.

-Shakira and “Hips Don’t Lie” is the single song I have heard the most times thus far.

-The video stores of Morogoro are a treasure trove for action junkies. Chuck Norris, Steven Sagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and similar relics of the past age enjoy a huge following here, if titles present are any indication. Most titles are available on video cassette, and audio cassettes are widely sold.

-Yesterday walking into town down a frequented path, I noted a 2x2 foot mural of Bin Laden on the side of a local barber’s shop. I asked my kaka about this, and was told that they don’t hate Americans, but mostly like anyone with power. He pointed out that I have seen a similar mural on a car depicting George W. Bush.

- I travel different routes to get to and from school each day, depending on the level of conversation or interaction I desire. In the U.S. I had always taken a straight line, from which I deviated very little. Here I feel a bit guilty if I travel past the corner hut renting bicycles and don’t stop to chat.

Rites of Passage

Some tribes in Tanzania have particular rites of passage that young men and women will pass through to become adults. Though these are less and less frequent, my host father, of the Uluguru tribe, recounted the experiences of his own passage. As a young man, he was to leave his home for “the bush,” in his case a suitable, isolated location nearby his home. In this location, he slept under the stars every night for a month, was taught many traditional songs, and was instructed in the proper ways to respect elders, especially his father (including proper greetings, not to enter father’s bedroom, …) At the conclusion of this time, the young men with whom my father underwent this passage were circumcised in succession without anesthetics. A party was then held, at which countless gallons of alcohol are typically consumed, as drums maintained a deep rhythm.
Similarly, women on the cusp of maturity are placed in a room and kept there (voluntarily it seems) for a similar period of time. They will be fed often, learn to pleasure men, and also be taught a special dance to be performed upon their emergence from the hut. Physical seclusion and frequent meals will cause the woman to put on weight and acquire a full chest. Additionally, a white corn based powder will be rubbed into her skin, lightening it and making her “more beautiful.” When finally prepared, whe will exit the hut in a public ceremony after which she is “ready to be married.”
I had the good fortune to witness one such “emergence” from a nearby home in our village. A mass of at least 300 people had gathered on the dirt road in front of a dirt home. A tight nucleus of about 10 musicians maintained a rhythm and a slow paced dance with enough order to give the appearance of choreography but enough creativity to give the appearance of spontaneity was held, participants moving in fixed concentric circles around the drum circle. Their combined dancing raised a thick cloud of dust; their combined voices a riotous cacophony.
I watched with my kaka from a distance, at the edge of the spectators but nonetheless afforded a spectacular view of the bacchanalian scene. The only white person present, and not in the mood to be dragged into dancing, I kept a measured distance. The mature emerged wearing a pink satin shirt and carried on a man’s shoulders, his head between her knees. She danced as best one could, waving her arms and leaning backward from her perch at extreme angles. At one point she leaned so far that her wig fell off and was quickly left behind. Slowly is made an ingloriously circuit through the crowd, following in her wake and finally, awkwardly thrown back in place. So involved in her exaggerated arm flailing that her eyes were shut, she did not seem to notice.
I am told that a man who is interested in marrying such a matured woman will typically send a typed letter to the father explaining this and enclose 5,000 or 10,000 shillingi (4-8 dollars). The father will consider offers and mail responses. Those still in the running will be told an amount, (perhaps 200,000 shillingi) that would guarantee success. I remain unsure whether those not selected are returned their “application fee.”
All members of my familia who are of my generation have declined to under go their respective rites of passage, though I am told that they are still widely practiced outside of major cities.


Idd El-Fitr

Somewhere between 40 and 50% of Tanzania is Muslim, depending on your source. Unfamiliar with Muslim custom, I feel privileged to be living in a Muslim home and am learning much from baba, who is an eager teacher. I arrived in Morogoro during the month of Ramadani during which devout Muslims fast during daylight hours, a tradition of great religious significance held for thousands of years. As such, at sunset each evening a meal, called futari, is held. Noodles flavored with coconut milk are eaten while a thin porridge is drank, often with tea (flavored with spicy pepper sometimes!).

Even now, confusion impedes a well informed account of this tradition, yet, as in other places, I will attempt. On Saturday, October 22, I was told that the sighting of the moon in either Tanzania, Kenya, or Uganda on Sunday night would determine if the following day were a public holiday or not, and thus whether school would be held (and I would be teaching) on Monday. Apparently this sighting determines whether fasting will continue for an additional day, or not. As my luck would have it, Monday morning I was told that an additional day of fasting would occur, and thus that I would need to teach classes that day.

As it turns out, different schools of Islam end their fasting on different days. While most of Tanzania would be attending school that day, a minority of Muslims would not be. On the way to school I journeyed to a nearby soccer field drawn by a rhythmic, possibly Arabic chanting. Attached to the top of the soccer goal were speakers broadcasting prayer to no less than 300 men in long sleeved white clothing who faced the goal, and sat 10 feet away from the goal roughly in a line. Food was being distributed as late arrivals joined the group. On the other end of the field, well past the midline, stood a similarly sized mass of women who faced the backs of these men as well as the speakers. Dressed in scarves and fabric of exotic colors and pattern, hair covered, I marveled at the straight line they formed and the physical gap between men and women. I don’t believe they received food.

But the Idd holiday was yet to come for most Tanzanians, occurring the following day. On this day I traveled with my family to the home of a nearby relative. We entered a roofless brick home, 10x10, and there with my kaka, baba, and about 8 other men I am surely related to but could not name, took part in a ceremony whose significance is unclear to me. A teacher of Islam, dressed in all white, produced a small book and read from the Koran in a measured chant as those present sat on a large mat. This lasted for about fifteen minutes, during which time small, mostly gray but differently colored items about the size of pebbles were taken from a tin container and sprinkled atop a piece of burning charcoal held in a small cup. Their periodic placement by several of those present produced curling smoke and a distinctive, not unpleasant odor I had not previously met with. The reading of the Koran finished, my host father produced a book in which he had written the names of over 50 relatives who had “gone to the West.” After each name, the teacher made the same brief statement and a rhythm was established. The list completed, other names were solicited, but the others assembled either could not or were not expected to furnish many more. Tea and buttered bread was shared and conversation in Kiswahili ensued during which I was entirely silent, though my ability permitted me to recognize that I was frequently the topic during this conversation. Shortly after this, the teacher became the first to leave, and we followed suit shortly thereafter.


Sampling Pombe

Insisting that I sample local brew, I pushed my kaka to take me to the nearby thatch hut where it was available. Rounding the corner as the hut came into view, we passed a group of 10 middle aged men enjoying a game of cards. They graciously invited me to join and sample their pombe. The beer was served in large plastic cups, slightly bigger even than most oversize token cups used by casinos, but still short of pitcher size. A thin metal disk was placed over the cup’s mouth to prevent dust from blowing in. As I began to drink, an inch thick head of white/gray foam came first and left last, leaving a milk-moustache like residue on my upper lip. The open liquid I glimpsed before the foam reclaimed it’s domain was light gray, speckled with dark black and brown floaters of assorted sizes. The taste was strong, somehow meaty and slightly sour. The alcohol stung and a banana sweetness was pervasive (this being banana flavored brew). As the card game continued, my ignorance of even its most basic rules became apparent, and my hand was graciously and thankfully removed. The pombe was passed after each round during shuffling, and I we were able to identify some of the floaters in a nearby emptied cup: a layer of their grain of choice, finger millet, had settled at the bottom. I have yet to return, but think I ought to before departure.