A Day in the Life of a Fisherman's Wife

As I sat there kneeling on the ground, sweat streaking down my face, oil and flour all over me I thought....how on earth did I get here? It all started a few days ago, when I ran into my friend Marianne who was on her way into town to buy "chapatis," a local fried flatbread. But she wasn't going to get just ordinary chapatis. Oh no, these were the "best chapatis in Bagamoyo." That sealed the deal, I was determined to go with her, and see where I could get the best in town. Never did I think I would get invited in by two delightful women, who were still cooking the last few batches of the morning, while the kids played in the hallway. Never did I think it would decide to pour down rain at that moment, trapping us in their house for an hour or so...to my amazement, our new friend took us into her room and served us warm milk, fried fish (caught by her husband himself) and of course, warm chapatis, fresh from the stove. As we sat there on the floor, Marianne asking her questions in Swahili while I tried to follow along, I couldn't help but feel very humbled by her generosity in letting her invade her home. "Nina furaha." She said overwhelmed, hands clenched to her body. "I'm happy." You and me both sister, and Marianne added in a "Sisi pia" (so are we). We asked if we could come back and learn how to make chapatis ourselves, and she laughed surprised that we wanted to learn about her work, but happy that we had asked. We agreed to come the next few days.

The next day we came and watched, and played with the children. It was quite a few hours of sitting, but nobody seemed to mind us, just hanging out watching. I thought of how early the women had woken up, and how the children had been sent to do their various jobs. I thought I had understood quite well how it felt to be our friend, working all day, making chapatis. Geeze, no wonder they stop cooking at 1 in the afternoon. That seems like a lot of work. Of course, I had no idea.

Until today. We finally went back for our last lesson. This time, it was our turn. They sat us down with flour, water, salt, and oil, and had us mix mini batches ourselves. The next 20 minutes were a tough mix of kneading, mixing, and cutting dough. My arms were already pretty tired, but I guessed it was the hardest part. We added all the oil, and rolled them into the nice little balls and waited for the stoves to be ready, feeling rather accomplished. Aha, we can do this, I thought.

Never would I have expected that the hardest part was yet to come. As we rolled, baked, fried, turned, flipped, and burnt our fingers on the simple coal stoves, I realized my work was nonstop, and that no breaks were to come. All the kids stood around, laughing, as we burnt our bread and ourselves, attempting clumsily to flip and move our chapatis. The women smiled, encouraging us to finish our work. Finally, after a few hours, we had success in the form of 22 chapatis. Our friends could make 60 in the same amount of time. I know, I watched them do it myself. I learned something that moment. Even though I had watched it myself, doing it was a completely different story. You never know how a person lives until you truly walk in their shoes. And even then, I only tried them on for a day. I will go back to visit those friends of ours, and drink tea with them, and play with their children.

But I will never know what it really is to be the wife of a fisherman, cooking chapatis all morning long, every morning, for the rest of my life. Nor will they ever know what it is to be me, a young woman younger than themselves, who has seen so much more than what is in their hallway. But who's to say what's out there is better without having lived that life themselves? When you wake up tomorrow morning, do us all a favor and ask yourself: "What is special about my life? What makes it so great and so important to the world?" Even if you aren't providing nourishment for your community, if you can find one good thing you do for others, than that's all that matters.

It was cold. Even through my 3 layers I could feel the light breeze, icy and ominous cutting through to my skin, my hands were numb and every joint ached. Every breath was a struggle, every step felt like I was wading through quicksand.....I kept looking behind, but my fellow climbers had disappeared from me over 10 minutes ago, and my friends who were on their way down had already descended out of reach. But I had to keep going. I knew I was close. ...and there it was ahead in the distance like a beacon in the early dawn: the flag of Tanzania, beckoning me towards the summit. I became more desperate in my ascent, scrambling over boulders, clawing my way up on all fours, every time I moved too quickly my body gasped for air, as if I was hitting an invisible wall. My struggle was not in vain however. In 10 minutes as I put one foot in front of the other I finally made it, breathless and overwhelmed with emotions. At 4,566 meters (14,980 ft) I was on top of.....Mount Meru, the 5th highest mountain in Africa. Out in the east I could see the sun just above the horizon, greeting me from throwing distance of the majestic one and only, Mt Kilimanjaro. Someday, I thought. Someday I hope to be up there. As I watched the sunrise alone, I marveled at the beauty of the world seen from so high up. Soon my friends joined me, and we celebrated our feat before heading the slow long way down.

I Like Swimming Pool

"I like swimming pool," say all of my students, on a rather regular basis. And although I correct them frequently, I've started to become aware that there is only one swimming pool that exists in their world: a few times a month the kids pile in the van and head to Livingstone Hotel, just south of Bagamoyo, to go to THE swimming pool. Although nothing fancy, (and somewhat scuzzy, let's be honest), the pool is something of a luxury item for our students. Not to mention it's in an incredibly fancy hotel (although not the nicest...). I felt quite amused when Lauren arrived with a bus full of kids, and we managed to line them up in an orderly fashion as we walked through the lobby, their faces aglow with excitement.

We soon discovered that several of our not so academically strong students were actually amazing swimmers: the local kids who don't live anywhere near the beach. We watched amazed as Maimuna and Asha swam around us, excited to be in the water again. Then there were the other kids....the ones we tried to get to sit in the water, on the second step in. It was comical, watching them squirm and laugh nervously as the got closer and closer to the water. No matter how many bubbles we tried to get them to blow, or how tightly we held onto their hand, there was no getting around this huge fear, as even one 11 year old boy clung to me like a koala. Ok.....looks like we need my sister's expertise here. She used to teach the really little kids how to stick their face in the water....The irony of living in a beach town where very few people actually know how to swim.

My conversation with Jane Goodall...if ever so fleeting

It's not every day your boss comes up to you with exciting news: "Guess what? There's a recycling conference in Dar Es Salaam." I smiled, "Great. Recycling is good." But actually what I was really thinking was "how booorrinngggg." "No, but get this, guess who's going to speak? Jane Goodall." Then she knew she had me. I agreed I would go, along with Laura and Emmanuel, as representatives of Steven Tito Academy and Baobob Home. Laura and I were pretty excited, but Emmanuel, our Tanzanian rep had no clue. In fact, this was the first time he had even heard of this lady with chimps. We could have told him it was just a recycling lecture and his response might have been the same: cheerful, but unimpressed. As I polled other people around the farm, I came to the conclusion that Tanzanians who have lived for decades in the same country as this woman have never even heard of her. I was shocked, but decided to excuse it as "cultural differences." I mean, to be honest, unless you are a huge animal fan or a biologist, she's not really that important of a person. Right?

As we sat down to hear the other speakers I noticed something more. Our good friend Emmu was close to the only Tanzanian there. As we listened to all of these foreigners talk, things started to bother me. For example, one volunteer for the Jane Goodall foundation's Roots & Shoots program made a cute little video about recycling, which showed her making a skirt out of newspaper, drinking from a durable water bottle, and recycling plastic in the proper container. Oh, she also read the newspaper electronically on her iPhone. This would have been a great video in America, and it was appropriate for audience, but if you brought it to the locals it would be completely inappropriate. The skirt she made was too short to be acceptable wear in Tanzania where women cover most of their legs for propriety sake, drinking water from durable water bottles doesn't work because you can't buy them in Tanzania. Not to mention I have never seen a "recycle" bin anywhere, or a trash can for that matter. It's nice to tell people to recycle, but unless you give them the means to the ends, I don't blame them for throwing out their bottles on the road. Where else can they go? As for reading a newspaper on your iPhone....well need I say more?

I was rather discouraged by this lecture, which seemed to be only catering to the small portion of foreigners who live in Dar. Then Jane Goodall took the stage. For a lady of her age, I was quite amazed at how well she could get around, and how often she traveled (300 days a year apparently). She talked about her life, and as a girl how she had dreamed of going to Africa, even though it was close to impossible at that time. She was quite witty, but also very pointed about telling us why she started Roots & Shoots, a youth based organization. She was tired of watching the world be destroyed. "We always say that we inherited this earth from our ancestors. Some say we borrowed it from our children. I say we didn't borrow it. We stole it. And it's their job to fix it." By the end of the conference there was a long line of people waiting to take their photo with Jane, or to get her autograph. I convinced my friends to wait a little longer so I could connect with some other people at the conference who might help our school. In the end we successfully roped a professional photographer into photographing our school for a few days...for free.

In the end my patience paid off, as I waited for my opportune moment to talk to Dr. Goodall herself. I introduced myself and explained my school, and asked her how I could lead the kids in making a difference in the world. "Well goodness me, have them join Roots & Shoots." She almost walked off right then and there, but then I asked, "Ok, of course. But what can I do?" She paused. "Just listen to them." As I thanked her, I told her that I too had always looked at those National Geographic magazines at home and dreamed of going to Africa as a little girl. "And here you are," she said, with a big smile. Here we are, I thought.

Living the Double Life

Sometimes it’s hard living in Africa. Your “standard of comfort” as I call it is rather low….you get used to dirt, sweat, crowded places, trash everywhere, the list goes on. But then again, life for us “mzungus” (white people) is still really plush compared to the average Tanzanian. I will admit, my new apartment is in the nicest and most expensive complex in town, with guard and laundry washing facilities included. Sweet.

I was thinking about this when we went on an outing last weekend to an exclusive resort called Lazy Lagoon. Completely isolated on a 9 kilometer island, this hotel resort really takes “mzungu standard of living” to a higher level. When we arrived, not only was the pool sparkling clean, but the lodge and restaurant was so luscious and comfortable, you could understand how the name Lazy Lagoon could really fit the place. Even the food itself was incredible, every bite left you wanting more, with combinations of local fresh fish and vegetables. The owner had to kick us off the island at the end of the day, and we rather reluctantly left.

It really makes you think though. Here I feel like we live like kings, staying in hotels and eating in restaurants for what seems like chump change to the average westerner. Of course I think of my students for example, who have only travelled with their school group, and would not normally get the chance to eat out or go to a fancy resort. They probably will never know what they are missing out on, or how life is in other places, like Europe where every kid is typing their homework on a fancy iPad instead of using old notebooks and pencils borrowed from school. And they probably will never know what nice pool and beach exists at Lazy Lagoon, a mere 20 minutes away from their homes.

Life long lessons on how to be a good Tanzanian wife

No trip in any country is sucessful without at least one couchsurfing experience. For those of you who don't know about it or haven't heard me preach its values for hours, check out the website, it speaks for itself: www.couchsurfing.org.

I finally convinced my friends that it would be a good idea to go to Dar Es Salaam, the largest city in Tanzania (and least popular, surprise surprise). Why not try couchsurfing and go out like locals?? Our group was a little bigger than intended, but our host Maricky didn't even hesitate when I added a fourth person to our count. We really had no idea what to expect when we waited at the old post office for our Tanzanian host to show up. It soon became apparent that we were in for a crazy night when he introduced us to his French friend, and then Argentian friends who would all be sleeping with us in two small rooms. Well, at least one of them had a bed.

The important thing to note here is that while my companions went off with Maricky to "explore the town" (they made it as far as the local bar and took a looonnng break) I decided to stay with the women who were actually cooking our dinner. I wanted to learn how to make rice pilau.

Language was of course, as always a barrier, and we didn't get much past "hello, how are you?" and "good," but as usual, language isn't really a problem, it's only 20% of our communicative powers. I ended up over the next few hours spending time with the individual families in our courtyard, talking to the women, watching them cook over coal stoves. One woman even invited me to eat with her family, she was so smiley and had me sit and try everything. Sadly I had to decline since we already had pilau on the way.

It took a while but I did eventually meet two ladies who spoke some English, and then we had a proper conversation, or the best we could given the language barrier. We compared notes about countries, and live choices. "Is that man that was here before your husband?" Uh oh.....I awkwardly tried to explain my way through our "relationship" as boyfriend and girlfriend with limited success.

As the evening continued I watched and somewhat participated in helping our new friend cook for all of us. As her husband explained everything to us, I quickly realized that the kitchen was definitely not his domain. "Do you ever cook?" I asked, cheekily. "Yeah sure! I can cook rice...sometimes...."

The food was wonderful, and I was amazed at how well she prepared everything over such a simple stove outside on the dirt ground. As we prepared to go out, I talked to one of my new friends who was preparing "ugali," a typical Tanzanian polenta that you eat with vegetables and meat. "Are you going out?" she asked. "Yes, do you want to come? " I asked, already knowing the answer as I had seen her go out already, but during the day, and with a veil. "No thank you. I am Muslim, and we do not drink or dance. Dancing is a sin. I will see you tomorrow." And with that I left, feeling guilty as ever.

And so we managed to all squeeze in somewhere, somehow, and sleep a few hours before the children and women woke us up, playing, shouting, washing, cooking. I began to realize that running a household here takes a lot more time. No wonder women seem to stay at home so much, there's too much to do with all the washing and cooking and cleaning. I was sad to say goodbye, but before I left my new friend insisted on meeting this boyfriend of mine. Fredi shook her hand and spoke a little Swahili before she deemed him appropriate, and gave us her blessing. "I have a good feeling about you two." I guess in this country things are decided quite like that, without question or hesitation. But I'm no Tanzanian woman.

Pole Pole! (pronounced pohlay)

The first rule of living anywhere, is to learn the fun slang words. Right? After all, there are some words that just slip into everyday lingo and next thing you know, it becomes part of your vocabulary. With Swahili, to start learning this language seemed almost like walking on water....it might have something to do with the fact that the last two languages I attempted to tackle were Russian and German....but the learning is still at a slow pace ("pole, pole" means slow, and basically works for everyhing here). I'm not really enrolled in any Migro Klubschule intensive course.

Right, I digress. The point is, it's rather hard to figure out what is "official" and what is "slang," as they all seem to rather meld together. For example, As you're wandering down the street, you can be greeted in any of the numerous ways, and the response is the corresponding word to however they greeted you. For "Mambo" you have plenty of options: "Poa," or "saffi," or "freshi." But if they ask you "Habari?" (what's up?) You HAVE to say "nzuri" (good). You would think this would give you a headache, trying to learn all the responses, but for some reason or another it comes rather naturally. Goodness knows every person on the street will call out to you, almost as if they are testing you to see if you can actually say something in Swahili. When you pass the test, you get a nod of the head. That's when you know you have passed lesson one. Well done grasshopper!