The day I learned the word "punda".

This story happened a long time ago so some of you may have heard it via skype or emails, but it’s a good one nonetheless. 

One day the boys and I were taking a walk along the spring when we saw a strange grey lump in the distance.  Intrigued, we ran ahead to discover a dead donkey, a punda, completely bloated, pregnant, that had been apparently dragged out of the water and left by one of the cattlemen. 

Quickly Nani came out and the four of us cautiously poked around trying to guess how it died and what on earth to do with it.  We needed to dispose of it soon, largely because of the imminent smell of a rotting carcass, but also because a distraught French guest at the tented camp had seen it moments before and had called Nani in a huff about a “dead antelope” in the water. (Still not too sure how she mistook a donkey for an antelope, but anyhow…) It was quite unsightly, possibly diseased, and right in front of the camp, so we started thinking of where to take it.  But the greater question was how?  Unfortunately I had no prior experience in disposing of 300 pound animals, believe it or not. 

Eventually we were able to get a bunch of the men from the village come down to drag it away.  We tied a chain around its neck, climbed into the bed of the truck, and proceeded to pull it about a mile down the lake shore, conveniently placing it at the base of a beautiful acacia away from any houses or camp.  Why was it convenient, you ask?  Well, Nani and I had conspired to place it somewhere that we could easily set up the motion-sensor cameras.  Like excited little school children, we ran home to get the cameras, placed them before sunset, and tried to sleep through our excitement of what might be caught on film during the night.  We raced over in the morning, cautious that no scavengers were left lingering, and couldn’t believe what the cameras had captured; one in video, one in photos. 

In the middle of the night a curious, yet hesitant, spotted hyena came sniffing the donkey.  Within minutes there were three of them, obviously lured by the smell and the distinct call of their friends, and in no time they had started to feast as numerous onlookers fearfully stared in envy and desire.  They ravenously ate away in a frenzy, and at one point one of the hyenas even jumped at the camera (probably intrigued by the smell of human and the small infra-red light), but luckily this time it was unable to get away with it. 

With its innards spewed about, and having gotten a temporary fill, they eventually dragged it away to a more secluded location.  A few cautious striped hyenas and mongooses scavenged the remains, but weren’t as lucky as their larger competitors. 

It was so amazing to see; I felt like there was a National Geographic movie being filmed in my own backyard.  I’m absolutely enchanted by the wild freedom of the African bush.  I mean, where else could you get away with bating animals by dragging around a dead donkey?  Maybe Kentucky.  

Hadzabe

Although the ultimate place of relaxation, Lake Eyasi is far off the beaten path and is frequently missed by many safari-goers only desiring to return home with pictures of the Big Five.  Those who do venture all the way out here usually come in search of a more cultural experience and are given the amazing opportunity to glimpse into the life of the Hadzabe, one of Africa’s last hunter and gathers.  They contently live day by day, sleeping directly under the stars, killing the food that they need or otherwise eating berries and tubers.  With their 10,000 year old way of live and beautiful click language, they have become a tourist attraction from which they now get paid (although unfortunately most is spent on alcohol, since they have no other need for money, which is causing devastating damage to the tribe…but that’s a story for another day).  Since I am by no means an historian, nor do I intend to pretend to be an expert on this tribe, I’ll simply recount my recent experience. 

The other day I finally went hunting with them, after living here for over three months.  I’ve met a handful of other Hadza through researchers or ones who have left living in the bush and now work for Nani and Chris, but this was my first “touristy” Hadza escapade. 

I woke up around 5am to head off on the back of Sadi’s motorbike (the same guy who bought me the African dress and has recently taken to being my personal guide) on a search for them through the mountains and endless bush.  Since they’re hunters and gatherers they have no houses and tend to move around when the depending on the abundance of food in the area, we weren’t positive where/when/if we would find them, but thankfully Sadi is a pro and we able to find a camp of about 20 of them huddled around a fire preparing for the morning hunt. 

We eventually set out with four young Hadza boys for a hunting “walk”.  And by walk I mean I was nearly at a jog getting stabbed by thorns and caught on trees and so busy watching where I was walking that I couldn’t even see what they were pursuing.  Even standing I barely have the eye to spot some of these small birds and animals.  I was so impressed to see these young Hadza flawlessly negotiate the bush, running through in their tire sandals without taking an eye off their prey.  I have no idea how they do it. 

Within minutes of the hunt one got a little canary, from which he removed his arrow and quickly slung the victim through his belt loop so as not to lose pace.  About an hour later they managed to kill two squirrels, thanks to their dogs trapping them under some rocks.  Satisfied with their hunt for breakfast, we went to rest by a large baobab tree, where they made a fire (using the impressive skill of rubbing a stick of hard wood against a plank of softer wood)  and proceeded to smoke bees out of the hollow tree and extract one of their favorite treats: honey.  It was delicious. 

Satisfied with our sweet appetizer we headed up the mountain a bit to build another fire to cook the food.  Within minutes a little fire was blazing, and they through the bird and two squirrels directly on it- fur/feathers and all.  We all gathered around, and they generously offered me a piece of squirrel.  I felt bad taking what little food they had- 3 tiny animals is nothing split among four hungry boys- but I so desperately wanted to try it.  I convinced myself it would be rude to decline their offer and graciously accepted.  And I have to say, it was pretty good, especially for being cooked right on a fire with no seasonings or anything. 

Happily we all walked (jogged) back to their home, where I spent some time beading with the women.  Apparently Sadi took a nap on the ground by one of the fires since the night before was Georgie’s wedding and he had stayed up way too late. 

After partaking in their traditional dance (touristy but fun nonetheless) I thanked them with my pathetic attempt of speaking Hadzane and we sped off through the mountains and bush, past all of the Tanzanians staring in awe at a white girl on the back of a motorbike, and arrived home in time for lunch. 

I’m really looking forward to another chance to go hunting with them when my parents come for a safari next week, especially since I forgot to charge my camera and only managed a few pictures before it died.  

Wedding in the village

 I officially made it through my first (and likely/hopefully only) Tanzanian wedding.  I always feel fortunate to be able to experience any ceremony, festival, national holiday, tradition, what have you.  When I travel I like to actually see what local life is life.  So when Georgie, the first friend Chris ever made as a youngster in Tanzania, decided to get married (to the woman with whom he has lived for nearly 20 years and has two kids), I was elated. 

Chris was not. 

He hates these sort of events, but would give his life for his Tanzanian partner so he “happily” stuck it out.  Only for Georgie.  Nani and I enjoyed the people watching and local food almost as much as watching Chris suffer through the nuances of the day.  But after the long dusty drive to the church (I was piled into the back of the wedding-party car with Nani and the boys), a three hour ceremony, a sweaty ride back to the village, a giant feast, a reception with enough trumpets blaring, dance performances, and inappropriate jokes from the MC to last a life time, we snuck off much more conspicuously than we would have like(but being literally the only white people it’s kind of hard to make a stealthy exit).   I couldn’t believe we had lasted 8 hours.  Apparently the actual reception went four more hours after we left (until about 9pm) and the music and dancing went until 2 in the morning.  I don’t know where these people get the energy. 

I’ll spare everyone the extensive details of this never-ending festivity, but as most weddings now have cross-cultural ties I think it best to just highlight the differences that I found particularly interesting.   

The venue:

The ceremony was at the church of the Spanish mission a few miles away, but the reception was held in the village in a structure specially constructed for the day.  This past week they had built a huge hut out of wood and palm leaves and tarps that stretched well over 100 feet long.  It was immaculately, albeit tackily, decorated and furnished with wooden planks on beer crates for benches along with a few plastic chairs for the wedding party, the mzungus, and the families of the couple. 

Wedding party:

Unlike the weddings I’ve been to at home that seem to have endless bridesmaids and groomsmen, this one was lacking in that department.  Georgie had a best man and Maryamou had a matron of honor who had a little boy and girl, respectively, that looked similar to what we would have as a ring bearer and flower girl, but who served no real purpose.  Although I found this interesting, the real difference was in the wardrobe choice.  The bride wore an completely synthetic over-the-top white gown, and so did the matron-of-honor, and so did the little girl.  As for Georgie and his best-man, they matched exactly down to their red ties and fake boutonnieres.  And the little boy was dressed in their same ill-fitting brown suits.  At first sight it looked like a double (or even triple if you could the little kiddies) wedding.  Certainly not what I was expecting. 

Guest list: 

Although most people got some sort of invitation to the official wedding at the church (not that it stopped people from constantly coming and going throughout the ceremony), the reception is open to anyone and everyone.  I’m certain that around 4pm there were at least 500 people. 

Food:

The endless guest list also means endless food.  Everyone got in a line (they always insist that mzungus get their food first which is eternally awkward) to go down the buffet line school-lunch style.  White rice, brown rice, goat, beef, cooked banana, potato, vegetables, and fruit, all slopped on top of one another is succession.  I wasn’t quick enough to use my Kiswahili for “only a little” and got slopped with at least 5 pounds of grub, although Chris asserted this was still a relatively small portion for their standards.  Still, the difficulty of eating all this food with only my hands left me stuffed and extremely messy.  Delicious nonetheless. 

Performances:

I kept waiting for the dance floor that so infamously describes the American wedding reception to erupt, but it never occurred (or at least not during the five hours we lasted).  Instead of an open dance-party among the guests, there were a serious of musical and dance performances.  There was a small brass band, a church choir, and an eclectic (but quite good) singing and dance group.  Although I enjoyed the entertainment and definitely picked up a few excellent dance moves to bring back to the states, after a few hours in the hot, smelly, confined space with an overpowering sound system, my head was throbbing. 

The cake:

About 4 hours into the reception, they brought danced out the three tiny cakes.  Although there wasn’t enough for everyone in attendance, the cake is part of a symbolic tradition of uniting the families.  First, friends presented the cake to the bride and groom.  The second cake was presented from Maryamou to Georgie’s father; the third from Georgie to Maryamou’s father.  Then the feeding of the cake began, similar to the tradition of the bride and groom feeding each other the first bite of the cake.  However, this went on for about an hour and included the entire family and more, proceeding as follows: Maryamou feeds Georgie, Georgie feeds Maryamou, matron-of-honor feeds Georgie, Georgie feeds matron-of-honor, Maryamou feeds bestman, best-man feeds Maryamou, best-man and matron-of-honor feed each other, and then Maryamou had to feed a piece to about 15 of Georgie’s relatives (many of whom fed her own in return).  It was quite comical.  Until we became part of it, that is.  All of a sudden the MC was shouting at Chris and Nani and me to get fed from Maryamou.  I was grateful to be a part of the wedding, but with limited Kiswahili and 1,000 eyes staring at me I felt a bit awkward as a middle aged woman dressed to the nines fed me a piece of dry and overly-sweet cake.  Despite my unexpected participation and sympathy for the bride having to eat over 15 bites, I still found the symbolic gesture to be a really nice tradition. 

Sentiment of the bride and groom:

The overwhelming difference to me was the way Georgie and Maryamou acted.  They looked miserable.  Or sad, terrified, almost vacant at some times.  I couldn’t understand why they never (save a handful of times) smiled, laughed, or even touched.  Turns out, they’re not supposed to look jovial, for it’s a serious day.  Marriage is a serious matter and therefore someone who laughs the whole time isn’t taking it seriously.  Woah.  Every once in a while I saw the two of them sneak a giggle but quickly cover it up as to not have the elders notice.  I hope they enjoyed it as much as everyone else… it appeared as if they thought the wedding was the worst decision they’d ever made, but Chris assured me it went off without a hitch and Georgie was thrilled. 

What a long, exhausting, interesting, entertaining day.  

I am not ashamed that this is the 5th entry referring to animal fecal matter…

The other night we went to a lovely spot near a pond about ten minutes away for a relaxing “sundowner”.  The kids were fishing while we drank our wine as the sun melted into the escarpment.  But as we’re all kids at heart, we quickly chucked our maturity aside and started throwing dried cow poo at each other in a full on war.  I can actually claim that I have battle wounds (literally, I have scratches all over my arms) from poop. 

Aren’t I refined?

No power? No hot water? No fuel? No problem.

The other evening Chris and I were relaxing on the porch, our respective books in hand, while Nani was at camp schmoozing the guests.  We started talking about life in Tanzania, about how hard most of the people work, about how little they ask for, and yet how they all appear to be extremely happy (almost unnaturally happy) but it’s so genuine that you have no choice but to believe them.  We quickly concluded that no one laughs like a Tanzanian.  They’re always singing, giggling, whistling, boisterously laughing and telling stories.  I can’t help but share in their joy when I’m I their presence.  Still, so many people who come to stay here feel bad for these poor Tanzanians.  They’re quick to judge their minimalistic lifestyle and often pity them.  But they laugh so much more than all of us.  It seems like we’re the ones who they feel somewhat sorry for.  Their lives are simple, but good.  What more could you want?

As Notorious B.I.G. so eloquently put it in his hit 90s rap song, “Mo’ money, mo’ problems”. 

The day by day “hakuna matata” lifestyle has certainly made me question things and realize that there is a fine line between comfort and excess, over which most Americans have jumped headlong into the latter.  During my stay here I have at least come back to teeter over the line, or so I’d like to humbly believe.  In light of all the power outages that have been occurring on the east coast due to the bizarre temperament of mother earth as of late, I thought it would be fitting to post about amenities here.  It may sound mundane, but it’s actually quite interesting to see such basic differences.

With the exception of a few random days, I have electricity in my house all the time.  For a girl just out of college, I’m living the life of luxury in my own solar-powered house.  However, since I have reliable power, people mysteriously come from all over to charge their phones here.  At least 3 people I don’t recognize creep around my house to find the outside outlets or (much less discretely than they think) ask the two people who work in my house to find an outlet inside.  It doesn’t much matter to me, although this has caused the power to drain once or twice. 

Hamna shida.  No problem. 

In my opinion I’m in no position to complain seeing as Nani and Chris don’t even have power all day long.  They run on a generator and actually only have power from about 6:30-10:30pm, as in four hours each night during which they all rush to charge their computers and watch movies. 

The tented camp that Nani and Chris run is a beautiful and luxurious place to safari, so it has power 24/7.  If all goes as planned that is.  It runs mostly on a generator but has a few solar panels as well, and for the most part works without any problems.  A few months ago the camp received some famous guests: the Dutch Royal family, or at least Princess Maxima, the Crowned Prince, their three little princesses, and about 15 other family members and security guards.  It was extremely top secret and they booked the whole place for the weekend.  All the staff had been preparing for quite some time and each was afraid that they would be the one to screw-up around the Royals.  The night before they arrived the generator blew.  Literally died.  Done-zo.  They had had it forever and it apparently decided that was an opportune time to say goodbye.  Somehow they managed to get to town and buy a new one and set it up in time for their arrival.  It was certainly a crazy weekend.  And yes, I met them all.  Two of the princesses definitely tried to drown me in the swimming pool.  I would share more gossip but I’d prefer not to get a letter from the Dutch government about any of the slander I could potentially disclose. 

Back to electricity and whatnot…

Being out in the bush, I somewhat expected to have limited power, but I was surprised to see that Arusha (the nearest small city which is about 5 hours away and a population of 300,000) has even more problems than we do here.   Due to the shortage, they have been getting power cuts for about 10 hours a day mandated by the government.  In fact now we don’t really have bread since the flour factory closed due to the power cuts so they can’t bake new loaves. 

About a month ago we went to Arusha and stayed at a friend’s house and were without power the entire day and night.  Recently, they were even out of fuel for a few days (although this was largely due to the gas stations boycotting price mandates by the government) which caused lots of problems to say the least. 

Arusha is so short on water that you can barely properly wash your hands without someone sneering at you for being wasteful.  Thankfully we’re near water so we don’t have a problem, but heating the water for a nice warm shower is another story.  The water  needs to be heated by fire (which I have to get one of the workers to set) and then it takes about a half an hour to get warm, but only stays hot for a short while.   Between my pathetic Swahili and the lackadaisical African concept of time, it’s nearly impossible.  So I’ve resorted to expecting cold showers, and end up extremely happy when I happen to get lucky and still have hot water available or have managed to accurately communicate when I’d like hot water. 

I think I’m starting to understand the Tanzanian happiness; when you don’t have much it becomes much easier to be delighted with the little things.  Expectations only lead to disappointments.  Many foreigners see it as the Tanzanians being lazy or poor, but I have found it to be that they are just extremely content.   Probably the most common phrase here most easily explains their outlook: hamna shida or hakuna matata. 

No problem.