Packaging Specifications

Living in Tanzania continues to teach me lots about my own assumptions. For example, how do you buy pharmaceuticals? As in, what exactly is in your hand when you leave the store? Ever thought about that?

The situation: One of my dogs has been looking rather thin, so I figure that a deworming course would be a good idea. It's been ages, after all. (If you're wondering about the diagnostic process and the lack of mention of any vet, just stick with me for now. The uncomfortable equality of health "common sense" and medical expertise would be a whole separate blog post.)

Solution, part 1: Find out what drugs to buy. I was able to cheat on this one, because some teammates recently did that research in town. Thanks, guys!

Solution, part 2: Send my gardener/day guard with some cash and the name of the drug written on a piece of paper. (I am so very thankful for this errand option!)

Unforeseen development: My day guard returns with four pills wrapped in a bit of newspaper. He explains that it's supposed to be administered in food and asks if he should go ahead and cook some. (No, you can't purchase dog food here. You make it each day.)

At first I just smiled in recognition of the makeshift pill packet and agreed with the plan. Then I started thinking of questions... "So each dog gets two pills?" No, since only one dog looks poorly, he only asked for one dose. (Ok, makes sense, but haven't I heard that pets are supposed to be dewormed together, just in case? Not sure...) "And wait, aren't there subsequent doses? I thought they get pills more than once...?" No, the guy at the store didn't say anything about that. (Is my memory off? Or maybe these meds work differently?)

By now my day guard is asking if I want both dogs dosed, and I'm feeling more and more inclined to play it safe. As I go to get the right change for a second (single) dose, I suddenly turn around and ask, "Do they sell these pills by the box?"

Yes, they do, but I hadn't asked for a whole box, had I? As we continued discussing the situation, I apologized for not asking for the specific thing I wanted. To offer some defense for my slip of mind, I did explain that I'm only accustomed to buying pills by the box or bottle. This got a good laugh.

So we're going to try again tomorrow, and my Western self is going to take great comfort in reading the directions on the pill box in detail.

But beneath the amusing miscommunication, what's going on here? I didn't think to say, "Purchase a whole box"; I just assumed that would happen. My day guard didn't think any further instructions were needed; after all, he knew the problem at hand. Why do we have such different defaults?

I'll hazard a guess: In a subsistence-based society, it is most normal to buy only what is absolutely necessary at any given time. My preference for preparedness (dosing both dogs the prescribed number of times, whatever that is) and knowledge (understanding the whole procedure, not just second-hand "need to know") smacks of a background of luxury.

This is just another example in a long list of instances that have shown me what a privileged upbringing I enjoyed. I won't give myself a guilt trip for blessings received, but I will be thankful that I can buy the whole box of pills, complete with instructions.

And I will ponder the consequences of a society accustomed to buying as little medicine as possible--and trusting the pharmacist to communicate everything they need to know.

Do you buy pills by the box? Do you know how wealthy you are?

Traditional Medicine

Today I heard about an interesting traditional healing practice first hand. A friend stopped by my house on her way to visit someone in the hospital with a badly broken arm. My friend was bringing food (which isn't provided by the hospital) and also a couple items to help the healing process.

One thing that may be helpful to understand is that people here are very pragmatic. Few would say, "I'm convinced that natural remedies are all you need; I won't go to the modern hospital." Westerners might tend to think in terms of either/or, but I think most East Africans are happy to accept whatever works. Thus, the flip side is also true: few Tanzanians would reject ideas from conventional wisdom simply because those ideas have not been scientifically established.*

This is the case with my friend and her mgonjwa (sick/wounded person). The bones have been set at the hospital, but she's still taking two local remedies for extra help. One is a bottle of pale-colored liquid. My guess is that she boiled some herb or other plant; I didn't push my vocabulary by asking for specifics. And I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that some of the vitamins or such in the plant really do help the body as it's making new bone cells.

The other object did motivate me to ask for more detail: a bone. My friend said it was a bone from a baboon, and that it helps to heal broken bones.

About an hour away from town, the main road passes by an entrance to Serengeti National Park.
We always see lots of baboons at the bridge.

She was happy to satisfy my curiosity, explaining that you pass the baboon bone back and forth over the broken arm of the person and tuck it into the bandages next to the healing bone. Talk about interesting! She certainly values the hospital's x-rays and bone-setting expertise. However, she pointed out that sometimes the modern methods leave an arm crooked after the bone has healed. Using the baboon bone helps the joints to return to full working order. When her little son broke his arm earlier this year, she used the baboon bone, and his arm has healed perfectly.

By the way, my friend is a smart, educated woman. In the same visit this morning, owls somehow came up in conversation, and she told me that many people are afraid that owls can bewitch people--but that it's only superstition, associated with owls being nocturnal (like witch doctors). She's also a serious Christian. To her, the baboon bone remedy is not witchcraft or superstition; it's just how things work.

It's all so different from my cultural mindset. Fascinating.



* Let it be known that I am no anthropologist! These thoughts come from my studies and training (limited though both may be) and from what I have observed and heard from others. The experience and the education confirm each other, but I'm aware that I may be oversimplifying dramatically. My apologies for any misleading blanket statements.

A Name for a New Baby

I've waited two months for this day! You see, my dear house helper and friend, Mariam, had a baby in April. She's been staying with relatives in another town until recently, so I didn't have a chance to see the new arrival until now. And, oh my goodness, she is the cutest little thing!

Okay, here's the mind-blowing part: Mariam wanted me to choose her baby's name! She'd sent word shortly after the baby was born. What an honor! At first I didn't respond directly to the news, not wanting to seem presumptuous. When they confirmed that it really was their wish, I had some serious thinking to do! I haven't even named a child of my own, let alone a friend's. What if they don't like the name?

I decided to look for a name from the Bible. Biblical names are common around here, even obscure ones. Perhaps Mariam, a sincere Christian, would appreciate a name with a godly heritage. Some names I rejected because they would be difficult to pronounce in local languages. Finally I settled on Joanna, who supported Jesus during his ministry and was one of the first to see the empty tomb and hear of Jesus' resurrection. I had a name... Would Mariam like it? I was nervous.

Mariam graciously came to my house today, since I was packing most of the day. (Tomorrow I leave for our annual conference and then to Houston for a visit.) Between our respective travels, this would be our only chance for a while! Poor baby needs an official name!

During the course of the visit, I told Mariam about the name I'd chosen and showed her the verses in my Swahili Bible where Joanna is mentioned. She really did seem to like the name! (Whew!) I explained, "Joanna was one of Jesus' friends, and I pray that this little girl will also become a friend of Jesus." I really didn't know how these occasions are supposed to work, if I was meeting expectations, so I just expressed what was on my heart to the best of my ability.

Joanna and me

I have now named a baby! It's the strangest thing. I think that this may also give me some sort of godmother-type role in Joanna's life. Guess I'll find out!

You can see more pictures on facebook. Mariam was amused by how many photos I could take. :)

Life is Precious

Warning:  This post does not have a happy ending.  It is the raw reality of something I witnessed.

On Tuesday, August 28th, a little baby boy was born.  On the side of the road, just outside my gate.

It was right after school, and my teammate Chris Gilmore had just come to pick up her son.  She recalls seeing a woman slide off the back of a motorcycle taxi onto the grass.  As she drove out the gate a few minutes later, she saw that the woman had just given birth!  She must have been on her way to the hospital, not far from my house, when the baby decided he couldn't wait even a minute more.  (Can you imagine riding side-saddle on the back of a motorbike while in labor?!)

Chris quickly stopped the car and got out to help, calling for me to come, too.  The baby was alive... but not crying.  She tried to clear his mouth and nose, and could feel him responding to her touch, but he still hadn't started breathing for himself.  Feeling completely out of our depth, we lifted the young mother and her baby into Chris' car to rush them to the hospital.

The odd thing was, we seemed to be the only ones who felt any urgency.  The woman who had come with the mother, as well as a couple others who had joined us in the street, acted somewhat surprised by our concern.  The mother herself, poor thing, was exhausted--and already past hope.  We learned that she had given birth to one other baby, who had also died.  She didn't resist our efforts; she was just completely passive.  So Chris told me to rub the baby's gums, to continue stimulating him, as we rode to the hospital.  I could feel his jaws move.

Unfortunately, once we got to the hospital, the scary situation turned into a nightmare.  Chris ran inside to get help... and was laughed at.  Eventually, she persuaded people to come out, although they certainly took their time in coming.  The mother was helped onto a simple metal gurney, and a nurse cut the umbilical cord and examined the baby.  With Chris standing there, pointing out the signs of life, the nurse started to wrap the baby in a cloth, ready to pronounce him dead.  When Chris protested, insisting that he could be saved with help, the nurse grudgingly made some attempts--including holding the baby upside down by his ankles and shaking him so hard, he was whipping back and forth!  I can't get that image out of my mind.

They wheeled the mother and baby inside, Chris following to see that they received treatment.  (I stayed in the car with Chris' son Braden, who was patient throughout the ordeal.  It's not the first time his parents have suddenly turned into ambulance drivers.)  We waited and prayed.  When Chris came out later, she was visibly upset.  She kept saying that the hospital ward was the most traumatic thing she'd ever seen, that she was so glad I hadn't come inside, too.

She said the lack of facilities and training is horrifying.  Everywhere there were women in labor, screaming, with very little being done for them.  There was a single oxygen tank being used for four little newborns, with an attendant moving the mask from one to another, in turn.  And Chris said the man in charge knew even less what to do than she did.  She kept after the staff until someone brought a stethoscope, and they heard "our" baby's heart beating.  "He is a fighter," she said.  "With the right help, he could make it."

However, as she composed herself to go back inside, her expression told me she wasn't confident the baby would get the help he needed.  Even the man in charge did not know CPR.  Chris said she listened as the baby's heartbeat grew fainter, and she felt his spirit leave him.

As we left the hospital, Chris mourned the prevailing attitude even more than the lack of training and facilities.  Everyone she saw thought she was crazy for caring about this baby.  Even the other mothers in the ward were laughing at her efforts.  The hospital staff, she was sure, wouldn't have taken action at all, if not for her pestering them to do this or that.

Also, we were disappointed, to be honest.  We know that God's plans are greater than our plans, but we had hoped He would step in, and that everyone there would see His power and care.  We had publicly prayed for the baby to live, wanting to see God reveal Himself and get the credit.  Instead He chose to have that baby experience only an hour of this life and then took him straight to heaven.  He knows best, and we have to trust that, even if we don't understand.

Meanwhile Chris and I were left with a strong impression of the fatalistic society in which we're living. "If it's meant to be, it will happen, and if it's not meant to be, there's nothing you can do."  This thinking drives Tanzanian behavior, just as ours is driven by cause-and-effect thinking, that we can influence outcomes by our actions.  I imagine that Tanzanians' fatalism helps them to cope with their very difficult lives.  But, as we witnessed, the laid-back mentality has a dark side.

Neighborhood Crime Watch, Tanzanian Style

I nearly lost my nice new phone last Friday.  Thankfully, it was recovered, and I got a nice look at "how it's supposed to work" in a community-oriented culture.

It started with a simple accident: I took a taxi to a teammate's house, and when I climbed out (carrying a fair number of things), my phone must have fallen out of my purse and landed in front of the gate.  I, of course, did not realize this.  (If I had, there would be no story!)  About an hour later, as we were sitting down to supper, my friends' neighbor boy showed up.  He's a teenager, and he often comes with my friends to play soccer with our group.  This boy, Michael, and his friend explained that they had seen a boy from their school pick up a phone off the ground in front of the gate--and when they urged him to make inquiries inside, the boy just ran off.

Sure enough, my phone was gone, and I immediately wondered if I'd see it again.  Michael, meanwhile, was volunteering to act as go-between, since he knew the guy.  We were so impressed and thankful!  The next hour involved Michael calling the boy who had my phone, getting assurances that he would come, reporting hints of a desired "reward", and all of us waiting... and then Michael would call again, and so on.  It was starting to get late, and my friends' night guard, Daniel, arrived and was informed of the situation.

Michael finally suggested we go find the guy, since he obviously wasn't showing up like he said he would.  This was a challenge, because it would be too far to walk, and my friend was alone with her three little kids, her husband being out of town!  She gamely got all three ready for a drive, and then we all--me, her, the 3 kids, Daniel, Michael, and Michael's friend--piled into the car for a trip to an unknown house in an unknown (and slightly shady) part of town.

We went to first one house and then a second, greeting this fellow's relatives and explaining the situation. He was not home (in either place), and it was starting to get dark, so we returned to my friend's house.  (I'd like to point out that she did an excellent job navigating various crowded alley-streets not really suitable for vehicles, and the kids thought it was all great fun and didn't want to go home!)  Daniel was not discouraged, saying that we had done a good thing in making our presence and situation known, that we would be well in place for further steps tomorrow.

Sitting in my friend's house, I was grateful for the calm I felt regarding the whole situation.  I knew I would be disappointed to lose my phone, but I wasn't exactly upset--and I figured that in itself was a gift!  "If it's gone, it's gone.  It's just a thing, and there are plenty of things that would be harder to lose."  I did wish that I could stop constantly thinking about it, but I suppose that's natural.  The kids were put to bed (late!), and my friend and I were in the living room, when--what was that?--Daniel called for me to come out, the guy with my phone had come!  (On foot, after dark...!)

I went out and greeted him and a couple of his relatives/friends.  Wanting to assume the best (and keep the discussion positive), I said, "I hear that you found my phone!  I'm so glad!"  And then my part was practically done!  Daniel took over, and although I couldn't follow everything that was said, it was a masterpiece of diplomacy.  He set about "saving face" for the guy, explaining "No one is talking about stealing, we weren't telling your relatives you stole anything.  This is what happened... and we were just looking for you, and you weren't there."  However, Daniel did let the guy see his options: "You found her phone, and now you can return it, and the whole thing is done.  But if her phone is not returned, well, then we will have to come with police to look for it."  And everyone agreed that there was no need to bring in the police!  So in the end, one of the guys pulled my phone out of his pocket and handed it to me.  More concluding remarks were made; then they shook my hand, wished me good night, and left--without even mentioning a reward!

Evidently our trip to the guy's neighborhood was exactly the right thing to do.  He couldn't very well claim "finders keepers" or sell my phone to someone else with his whole community knowing that the mzungu (foreigner) was looking for him.  I saw Daniel again recently, and he told me the guy probably couldn't figure out how to turn it on, it's such a different kind of phone--so he probably figured he might as well return it!  (Anti-theft tip: buy nontraditional phones!)  Meanwhile, after recovering my phone, Daniel and I went next door and gave Michael a reward for his honesty and helpfulness!

All Kids Like Stickers

I went to visit my gardener and his family, and I took along a few little sheets of stickers to have something for the children.  Those stickers were a hit.  The three kids immediately started peeling them off the sheets and sticking them onto any surface they could reach.  Before long they were decorating themselves, too.

And when I got out my camera, that only encouraged the craziness...

The youngest had to have his picture taken too...

Not that I minded!  They're such cute kids.  In photo order, they are Jasmine, Justine (oldest), and Jeffred.  They're exceptionally friendly kids; they call me "Aunt" after meeting me just once before, last year.

So, yeah--stickers are great tools for visiting.  And the silly bands were good, too.  ;)

A Tanzanian Wedding

This was my first time attending a wedding in Tanzania, and I went full of curiosity.  The bride and groom, Diana and Pius, both work in our translation office.  They were married in a little church in a village outside Musoma.  In an interesting twist, the wedding was not held in Diana's home church.  She had specified that she wanted to be married in the church of a neighboring village--because that's where she was baptized as a girl.  So her family, friends, and even her pastor all travelled in taxis, etc., in order to hold the wedding in this special place.

I enjoyed the experience, and overall I was struck by how the many of the same traditions seem so different in this context.

For example, the bride was preceded by a group of bridemaids in matching dresses.

However, time is perceived far differently here.  The bridesmaids stood in the doorway for some time until everyone was ready.  (I should also note that the wedding started a good couple hours after the time printed in the invitation.  I think the rain and extra travel contributed.)  Eventually the bridemaids started their march (sort of a dance-march) down the center aisle, and after them came the beautiful bride.

Diana was stunning!

After Diana reached the front of the church and joined Pius, they were both seated in chairs facing each other across the "stage" area.  A very nice practice, in my opinion, especially if the pastor's message runs on the long side.  And here in Tanzania no church event is complete without a performance from the choir.  After songs and sermon, the bride and groom stood and came together to say their vows.

You may notice the camera men in the picture...  Often there were as many as four or five guys snapping pictures (in addition to the guy with the video camera).  This was another cultural difference; the photographers stood right in front of their subejects, blocking the audience's view in the process!

The tradition of the wedding cake is practiced here, too--during the service!  Pius and Diana fed each other small morsels of cake (all very ceremonious, no fooling around!), and then each of them cut slices and served their in-laws seated in the front row.

To complete the ceremony, the two newlyweds exited down the center aisle... again, that slow, swaying dance-like procession.

Everyone filed out after them and entered immediately into the reception area--the church yard.  There people stood and chatted while those in charge of the food bustled around preparing giant pots of meat, pilau (rice), and cooked bananas.  It was quite a while before the food was served, but no one seemed to mind... or even think anything of it.

So now I've been to a wedding here.  I left thankful for the invitation and prayerful for this couple and their new life together.  May they be an example of a godly home among their community.

A Delightful Visit

Not all cultural experiences are this fun. One of my night guards had invited us (my house guest and myself) to his house for a visit. He's a really neat guy, and I'd met his wife, so I was looking forward to this trip. Getting there took some doing; they live a little ways outside Musoma, so we called a taxi. (It really helps your own peace of mind to have nothing else planned for the day... you never know how long things will take!)

We left around noon, and explored the Kariakoo area a little before we found our host. Justine Nkingwa is an elder in his local church, and before we proceeded to his house he showed us the new Kariakoo church building--almost finished. Then we followed him along winding footpaths until we arrived at his house. We were graciously welcomed inside and served tea, fruit, etc.

I finally got to meet Sofia, the daughter of the family. She is famous in my mind because in this culture you refer to people by their children. Thus I am used to thinking of "Baba Sofia" and "Mama Sofia"... now I know who I'm talking about! Sofia is just now graduating from secondary school. She takes her exams soon, and the results will determine whether she will be able to continue her education. Her sister is already studying at a pre-university college in another town. Meanwhile we met her cousin who's visiting from the nearby city of Mwanza.

Another family lives in a small house on the same compound; the two units treat each other as extended family. The two small grandchildren from "next door" curiously poked their heads in and stayed close for our whole visit. Eventually their grandparents and young mother also came. In the photo our host, Mr. Kgingwa, is seated on the far right, his wife next to him, and Sofia next to her.



The little boy is about five years old and already a prayer warrior. For most of his life he struggled with pain, confined to his bed. He made it his habit to cry to Jesus, and now he has been healed. He thanks God for his health and is ready to pray for any need he hears about. Before we left he prayed specifically for each of us (for me, that I would find a good house of my own). He and his little sister also sang for us.

Here is a better picture of the two families. The Nkingwas' friends are on the right, their daughter (the children's mother) on the far left. The girl in blue is Sofia's cousin.

We chatted with our hosts over tea, and they showed us some of their family photographs. It was really fun getting to know them better. I was gratefully amazed by how easy it was to talk with them--both Mr. and Mrs. Nkingwa are careful to slow down a little and speak clearly to us. (Enunciation is a foreign concept to most people I meet.) They made conversation a pleasure and even took advantage of opportunities to teach us new words and phrases. After our photo session moved us outside, chairs followed us, and we continued our visit in the shade of their garden.

The kids gradually got over their shyness, coming up to touch our light-skinned arms and playing clapping games with us. They also didn't mind helping us with our bowl of sliced sugar cane. I don't remember how sugar cane had come up in our conversation, but our hosts offered to bring us some. They thought it especially funny that I had never had it before. So Sofia and her cousin were sent into the garden, and they came back with fresh samples for us. My assessment: very sweet and very juicy!

The Nkingwas walked us back to the road when it was time to leave. When we passed the new church, we could hear children's voices from inside. It was the Girls' Brigade, a Sunday afternoon girls' club that Mrs. Nkingwa usually teaches. We went inside to greet the girls and were rewarded with fascinated smiles and a couple songs. Walking through the village shops near the road, we stopped a few times to chat briefly with our hosts' friends. Then we were saying our godbyes, repeating our thanks, and easing through the mob of kids surrounding our waiting taxi. Settling back into my seat for the ride home, I could hardly believe what a fun afternoon it had been!

Thoughts on Visiting a Local Church

Yesterday I had the opportunity to go to a church here in Musoma. This was my third church visit, to different places each time, depending on whom I went with. The visits are usually neat experiences, but very draining.

This one was a good example. One reason the experience can be draining is pure mental exhaustion. To listen to rapid Swahili with comprehension over a long period of time requires sustained, intense concentration. At least, for me it does! As I listened to the various opening items, I wondered if I was really too tired for this outing this particular day. The building was not large, but there were still plenty of distracting noises from without and within. A couple nice soft-spoken ladies were particularly difficult to understand. Sometimes going to church is really motivating for me, in terms of Swahili learning, and sometimes it's just discouraging. This was looking like one of the discouraging days!

I am proud of one accomplishment. Regardless of which church or denomination you attend, visitors are always expected to stand and introduce themselves. On my first church visit in Musoma I flew under the radar by including myself in my friends' introductions. On my second I just didn't stand up, partly because I didn't know the proper greeting and was scared, and partly because my mind was already waging a losing war for sanity against the church's booming speaker system. This time I was ready. You start by saying, "Mungu asifiwe," which means "God be praised." Ironically, I'm not sure if I said it or not, bacause my friend Hazel thankfully initiated the introduction for her two guests. I'd heard the word for guests several times before that part of the service and was pretty confused as to which was my cue! Anyway, with her help, I managed it.

Evidently the service was not exactly typical for this church. With no electricity--and therefore no synchronized beat from the keyboard--the choir seemed less than enthusiastic. They sang a couple songs, but to my incredulity they sang standing stock still. They didn't move at all. Usually choirs here accompany each song with choreographed dancing; they're really neat to watch. This choir was not completely denied--the power came back on during the service and they sang again after the sermon. Meanwhile, I really enjoyed seeing what happened before the sermon while the electricity was still off. Several small groups went up front and did impromtu performances. A handful of women did a couple songs at different times, and once a whole line of young guys sang. These were mostly call-response style. Also, I should add that we in the congregation also sang a few songs. (This practice is not universal in Tanzanian churches, nor are lyrics always available. In this location families come to church with their own copies of a Swahili song booklet.) I was excited when we turned to the final song: How Great Thou Art. I really like to hear it in Swahili.

The sermon was remarkable in that it was given by a woman, the first time I'd seen that in Tanzania. The church has a rotation of speakers, and you never know who will be preaching. Unfortunately the power came back on right as she was getting started. Before she was scarcely audible. Now the distortion from the microphone was so bad, she was incomprehensible to a novice Swahili speaker like myself. Already discouraged, I admit I pretty much gave up. I did try to find the scripture passage in my Swahili Bible. During a previous responsive reading i had discovered that the congregation uses a different translation than the one I have. I was trying to listen to the New King James and follow along in the New Living, so to speak, and not in my own language. That's beyond me, I decided. But if I can't understand the preacher, at least I can read from the right spot. Or so I thought. I turned to John 3 but never heard Nicodemus' name mentioned once. Later I learned the sermon was taken from the book of Jonah ("Yona" as opposed to "Yohane"... remember, I couldn't hear well!). :)

Then there are the small things that monopolize your attention. In churches here I often see people laying their heads in their arms, resting on the backs of the simple wooden "pews" in front of them. The services are long, after all! (This one went three hours--not customary, but not unheard of, either.) When the lady behind me decided she was ready to relax in this way, I didn't take it personally, knowing that personal space is understood very differently in this culture. Still, there was only half an inch of board upon which she could position her arms. So as she tried to get comfortable I was effectively nudged slightly forward, my back rest at times elbowing me gently. I could have sat forward, I suppose, but I too was tired and desired the back support. I knew she wasn't being rude, and from then on I devoted a significant amount of my limited concertration toward not taking offence.

One more note of interest: A business item at the end helped to extend the service time. The church has taken upon itself the responsibility of paying the school fees for a couple students. (Decent schools are usually private ones. The government school are packed beyond overflowing and offer little hope of getting into college.) Since the church had not yet collected the funds necessary, the congragation was asked to make pledges. Various members stood and commited to certain amounts, and this continued until the total was reached. Then the service was brought to a close.

As usual, I was glad I went, even though I was exhausted. (I'm very thankful for resources like online sermons; I couldn't manage these trips every week!) Sometimes I wonder if I will ever truly feel at home here in Tanzania. To some extent I think I will (and am beginning to already), but realistically I imagine that I will never quite lose my outsider status. It's hard to feel like a perpetual visitor. As I sat in the church mulling over these things, I determined once again to keep pushing against the boundaries of my comfort zone, to keep going to churches and doing other things to intentionally be around people in their environment, to keep working on Swahili... If I can do those things, I believe I will become more and more comfortable living in Tanzania.

Sunflower Harvest

We spent most of this week living with a Tanzanian family in Iringa.  It was our final session of language school: 24-7 Swahili practice and first-hand culture observation (and participation!).  Our hosts were wonderful; we truly enjoyed getting to know them.  Here are our hosts (two family units; the wives are sisters) with the Kamphuises and me (in green shirt).

Probably the main highlight of our stay was the day we went out to the family's fields in the village.  There we helped with the sunflower harvest.  Our hosts said they would do the corn another day...  They didn't want to give us the hard job!  Indeed, there's not much to harvesting sunflowers.  First we went out with knives and cut the flower heads off the stalks.

The more time-consuming work was to get the seeds out.  Everyone dumped the flower heads they'd cut onto a mat in the shade of some bamboo, and there we literally beat out the seeds.  We would hold the sunflower in one hand and hit it with a stick.  This is enough to jar the ripe sunflower seeds, and they come flying out.

Even the kids enjoyed that job!

Tanzanian Cooking Class

Last Friday our teachers gave us a project day instead of our normal lessons.  They showed us how to make a bunch of different Tanzanian foods--and let us participate!  (We also learned a ton of new vocabulary in the process... including what has to be one of my favorite Swahili words: pili pili ho ho -- it's a pepper!)

Coconuts are used for a lot of things, especially in the coastal areas.  We cracked them open with a solid metal pestle (you know, "mortar and pestle").  Shona's broke open a lot more neatly than mine. :)

To get the coconut "meat" out of the shell, we sat on these special stools, nicknamed "goats."  On one end is a stick with a rounded blade at the end.  By rolling the coconut half over the blade--over and over--we scraped out all the good stuff.

They use the coconut mostly for what you can squeeze out of the white "meat."  In order to get this "juice" you pour a little warm water onto your mound of coconut shavings and squeeze it out, yeilding a nice rich liquid.  You repeat the process a few times, but that "first milk" is the best.  It gets saved, to be added last into what you're cooking.

Then there the rice.  The mills here don't have machinery specialized enough to get all the tiny bits of things out of the rice, so you have to do that.  First you go through and pick out any little stones you can see... as demonstrated by Dorien and Andre.

Then you sort out the lighter, invisible things using the large flat basket.  One of the verbs we learned was for that process; my best translation for that one word is: "toss rice up in the air so that the little bits of chaff(?) float away."  In this picture, I think Dorien and I were laughing about how much rice we'd managed to slosh out of the basket.

Another thing I enjoyed was making sambusas.  They are made with strips of dough folded into a triangular pocket; ground meat, onions, and maybe other things go inside.  Then it's fried.  The process for the dough alone is daunting... it gets rolled out, stacked, partially cooked, folded, cut, peeled apart... I forget it all.  But I love the finished product.

After working from 8:00 to 2:00, we finally were able to enjoy the feast we'd prepared.  I admit, I enjoyed the preparing more than some of the dishes themselves... not used to it all yet. :)  But it was a great experience, and we were all proud of ourselves!