Not exactly Charlotte

No really, you can have the tree

I thought the above spider was remarkable and strange as it dangled from a tree. I had a strong zoom on my camera. We were the perfect distance, really.

Last week, I was studying outside and heard a loud, short bird call, unlike any I had heard before. I set down my books and headed to the tree where it was perched. The bird was near the top of the tree, it's underside camouflaged with the tree's leaves, even with the light shinning through them. I needed a better angle.

I backed-up, but other trees blocked my view. I tried to spot it from below again, but there were too many branches in the way. I decided to circle the tree one last time, head toward the sky, with nothing but birds on my mind.

Then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. A spider's web right in the face, stuck to my hair, trailing down my sweater.

As I picked and pulled at strands, I began to wonder whether I had collected the web alone, and not perhaps a spider along with it. Then I noticed him: a foreboding spider like the one above. Perched on my shoulder, tapping a leg and wondering why I had wrecked his web.

Suffice it to say, the conversation didn't last long. Pretty soon he was airborne and I was nearly airborne myself.

I have circled a couple trees since then looking for birds, but now I look to see what is in front of me, too. I am guessing the spiders are keeping an eye out for me as well.

Forever and ever (amen)

Swahili hymnal

“What does one wear to a Maasai wedding?” I asked the other morning, trying to picture the day ahead.

The idea of a Maasai wedding was full of intrigue for me. A friend told me that cattle and chicken would be blessed at the end of the marriage, thereby bringing a higher price for them at auction; another led me to believe that cows’ blood and milk would be served. I was writhing in anticipation.

But the one I attended was different. No cows’ blood, only Christ’s blood.

A white short-bed truck arrived with Maasai singing in the back. Behind the truck was a four-wheel drive vehicle containing the bride and groom, both of whom were carried into the church and seated adjacent to the altar.

“Is she wearing a wig?” a man asked as we peered through the cinder-block windows. Apparently the minister – who is American – threatened not to marry her if she wore a wig. “He likes to keep things traditional,” the man explained to me.

But I became confused as to which tradition they were trying to preserve. Attending a service led by an American, reading from my Swahili hymnal, taking communion, commenting on how white the bride’s dress was: it just didn’t feel Maasai enough for me. Where was the ceremonial necklace?

“Does the church have a stance on the dowry system?” I asked another minister, knowing the bride had been purchased for twelve cows, which seemed more offensive than whether the bride wore a wig or not. “I think the church tries to stay out of local customs,” he told me.

But I wasn’t placated. I was torn between two things: wanting to know that Maasai traditions are able to coexist with German ones, and yet wanting to believe that Maasai traditions which counter basic human rights (i.e. the dowry system, female circumcision) are no longer practiced. And while my logic seems straightforward, it is the same logic invoked by many other well-meaning people. The fallacy that my strongly-held beliefs should be imposed elsewhere.

I needed to talk with someone about this, so I sat down privately with the minister tonight. I explained my conflicted feelings and asked about how the church incorporates Maasai culture into its services. His face lit up. “I was as disappointed as you were,” he said referring to the wedding. He expressed concern that people may think that because they are getting married in a church they need to have a “modern wedding,” with make-up and wigs and mosquito netting around the bride's face. He wants to ensure that Maasai culture continues to thrive in local churches - a tall order, but I am hopeful he can accomplish this.

He also told a story: a few days ago he was walking in a village and was called over to attend a ceremony. It was a coming of age ceremony for young girls. “As many cattle are slaughtered now as ever, so the grandma’s are happy,” he explained, “but they don’t circumcise the girls anymore. That’s a decision they made as a congregation. We just advised them.”

And whether it’s right or not, I feel better knowing this, too.

So what does one wear to a [Lutheran] Maasai wedding?

• If you’re me: a button-up shirt and the cleanest pair of trousers you can find.
• If you’re the choir: beautiful purple and blue fabrics with long beaded earrings and heavy jewelry with jangly bits.
• And if you’re the bride: a white dress and veil – and yes, a wig. Because it’s not up to us to decide how she should spend her wedding day.

Manchuria must be missing a candidate

This is an excerpt from an article which recently appeared on the front page of a large news outlet in TZ (SundayNews). As for the incident it depicts, I have a very good alibi.

"Tanzania's beliefs of the occult have finally forced Parliament to form a special probe committee to establish the truth about one of its members suspected of having performed 'withcraft ' rituals within the premises of the...House in Dodoma, the Speaker of the National Assembly, Mr. Samuel Sitta has announced.

"Mr. Sitta...told a seminar...that the committee...was set up over the weekend to look into allegations that an MP conducted 'superstitious practices' within the Parliament building.

"Mr. Sitta explained that the six cameras within Parliament were switched off at the time the 'witchcraft' practices were said to have taken place, but added 'there was one camera on in the studio.' He fell short of saying it actually happened when he alluded to 'hazy pictures' the police 'were working on to create a better picture.'

"...the Speaker admitted that...the MP for Kyela, Dr. Harrison Mwakyembe, last Thursday 'felt weak' and 'lost strength' in the course of the day's Parliamentary session.... some powders were found where he was sitting.

"Mr. Mwakyembe is famous for leading a Parliamentary probe committee on the multi-billion emergency power supply scam which implicated the Richmond Development Company - which subsequently led to the resignation of former Prime Minister Edward Lowassa, [the] former Minister for Energy and Minerals... and [the] former Minister for East Africa Cooperation...

"The committee [led by Mr. Mwakyembe] had also urged the government to take action against the culprits within three months."

New analysis: Millions were stolen. Top officials were involved. The scam was discovered. The Prime Minister resigned. Witchcraft was performed. The man leading the investigation became weak. Powders were found.

You should see what was on page two.

Take a hike

I went on a short hike today with friends. We found several interesting things and I wanted to share a few of them with you.

Bundles of carrots (if only Dale Chihuly were here to see them)

A pool of green goo. Primordial ooze, anyone?

Sticks of clay.
We watched a woman make these and she explained that they are used to make mugs and plates, and also that pregnant women will eat them - perhaps to avoid anemia during childbirth.

A man showed-off his ancient coins (some dated 1907).
He also treated us to some of the biggest passion fruits I have ever seen.

If you think building a fish pond up the side of a mountain sounds strange, Germany built a Swahili school for its soldiers near the top of it.

This is presumably not the bridge used to transport the materials for the German Swahili school.

The landscape

A baby pineapple

I also wanted to share a few photos from a similar hike we took a couple weeks ago:

This rock looked remarkably like marble swirl cake, perhaps because it's closely related to either marble or cake (I was hoping for the latter).

The German school near the top of the mountain. I struggled to understand why they decided to build it here, until I saw the view.

The view.

For shizo

I am attending a Swahili training program this month, hoping to build a grammatical foundation for current and future vocabulary. I have been surprised to find, however, that my instructor speaks a different language entirely.

"Let's get this started for shizo," he said as we initiated my studies, "Welcome to the club. Let's bounce."

After a few secret handshakes (I always forget the snap), I lost track of who was teaching grammar to whom.

Sure I've had to correct him on certain noun classes, and sure he is a little fuzzy about some of the possessive pronouns, but in a different time and place he'd be married to Britney by now and adored the world over.

This afternoon I met a new instructor, with whom I will be working next week; he attended my midday exercises. When asked by my current instructor what he thought of my work, he said emphatically: blublastic. Meaning, apparently, fantastic.

It looks like I will be learning more vocabulary next week that is not in my textbook. My hope is that I not only figure out the snaps in the handshake, but that I also learn to augment nouns and pluralize the second person plural.

For shizo.

Clay castle

There were red-tailed monkeys dancing in the trees above a friend's office recently. I admired their agility and was grateful to live in a place where such wonders exist.

Then a very different wonder formed before my eyes. A mysterious column emerged from the underbrush and wafted into the canopy like smoke from a chimney, starting narrow and billowing as it rose. But this wasn't smoke. It was termites.

My friend and I slipped into the forest and one of nature’s marvels unfolded before our eyes. A termite mound was alive with activity - winged termites emerged from dozens of holes, their wings compressing as they crawled into the light, each termite directly followed by another and lifting off without a moment for sentimentality. Their systematic, orderly movements were a little surprising – reminding me more of assembly line footage than spectacles I have witnessed in nature.

Then I became aware of something else: a rhythmic, pulsating patter which seemed to emanate from the mound. Was it the sound of their wings beating rhythmically inside?, I asked.

My friend corrected me: That is the soldier termites who are protecting the flying termites from the invading army ants, he explained. As I would learn, army ants are notorious for (among other things) raiding termite mounds, and soldier ants pound their head on the outside of the mound to inform troops inside that reinforcements are needed.

Sure enough, I saw a circle of soldier ants encompassing the base of the mound and seemingly protecting it from attack. Army ants crossed the path at my feet.

Holes into the mound will be sealed soon, my friend explained; termites would efficiently lock-down their castle for the night. Indeed, few winged termites surfaced. A clever defense was underway.

Complex social roles of ants were happening at my feet, inches from my nose and at the tip of my finger as I pointed at new discoveries. Twilight encroached quickly and we began to struggle to make sense of the scene before us; soon we stepped out of the forest, curious to know how the drama would conclude. Curious to know how it began.

Only a few termites fluttered in the air as we walked back past the office. Those who escaped successfully will have the chance to mate and begin a new colony. Others were no doubt consumed by swooping birds and maybe, just maybe, the monkeys dancing above.

Ladies are not allowed

I took this photo earlier today at the entrance of a crushed red-velvet lined Indian restaurant in Dar es Salaam. Interpret this sign as you wish, but I am guessing it is not meant to protect women from spicy paneer.

A friend recently returned from a trip to the US - it was his first trip outside Tanzania. He was struck by how "empowered the women are" in the US. "They were running around with cell phones and making decisions," he said. He has vowed to help women overcome hurdles "in his village and his home." I am so glad he gets it. But signs like this remind me just how much work is left to be done.

When life gives you lemon trees

You make lemonade. Lots of it.

My newest new roommate – who selected the pseudonym "Gecko" for the purposes of this site – and I had dinner at a neighbor’s house recently. “My, what nice fruit you have,” I told our hosts, referring to their feast of local fruit. “I wish I could grow fruit like this.”

“You already have three lemon trees!” their youngest informed us; clearly he knew more about my yard than I did.

As it turns out, he was right.

Since then, I have been jumping into lemon trees in my backyard, the source of great amusement for anyone present; apparently jumping is more effective than climbing when it comes to harvesting lemons - my climbing efforts were literally fruitless.

Now I regularly go out back and harvest pockets full of lemons – for me and Gecko, for neighbors, friends, taxi drivers.

The tree is, unfortunately, thorny and claws and bites as I pull down branches, catapult myself up or jump at clumps: scraping me in places that later burn when squeezing the lemons for juice. For a while I sported a scar across my forehead, but I considered it a small price to pay for lemons on demand.

Last night Gecko and I decided to make lemonade. I jumped and grabbed, my technique quickly perfecting, filling my pockets with sweet-smelling fruit. Using a lemonade recipe, I made syrup out of sugar and water, then added juice from 5 lemons, diluted it with bottled water and served it with ice.

The verdict? It's good enough to keep me jumping.

Green (but ripe) lemons and homemade lemonade

My bullfrog's back

And you're gonna be in trouble.

Hey la, day la, my bullfrog's back.

Actually, it's just the old toad in my shoe again. I arrived at work today to find him nestled in the toe of my left shoe. I figure it's hot out, and if I were a toad, that would be a pretty logical place to wait for evening to fall. Plus, it'll give him something to croak about to his friends.

As long as he wipes his feet before he returns, I don't mind him living in my shoes at all.

What's in a name?

A friend recently told me a story about someone who asked her if it was dangerous in America because of all the "Roberts." It took her a while to figure out that he was referring to "robots," and that his reference was to Terminator II, which he apparently believed to be a live action film.

She assured him that many of the Roberts in America are in fact harmless. Some are even vegetarians.

This story was particularly amusing to me because I have been confused with robots as well - and not just because I am strangely punctual. The letter e is pronounced in Tanzania in its soft "eh" form, while o is pronounced in its round "oh" (think "go") form. So Robert sounds a lot more like "Roh-beht," and sometimes gets further disfigured to Robat, which sounds like "rohbaht" or very nearly "robot."

Other common nicknames include:

• Robart or Robarti (common)
• Robi (pronounced "rohbee")
  
• Robu (pronounced "rohboo," my favorite)
• Much less common is Rabit, which is how my name has twice been spelled on forms, even after I have spelled it for the person writing it

All of which are preferable to "Mazungu" (white person), which I have written about previously.

While my vowels get changed, my consonants have luckily stayed the same. This is particularly impressive in a place where r's and l's are often swapped, such as at my tailoring duka which advertises their work in big letters as "Tairoling." Once an email I sent bounced back, so I swapped the r with the l in the email address, and it magically went through.

But enough about my name. The real story here is everyone else's names.

First there are informative names: for example, someone named Jumanne (Tuesday) was likely born on a Tuesday, and someone named Pili (second) is probably the second born; it can also be assumed that someone named Shida (problem) was probably a pain on the day of delivery. One of my favorite names is Mwanahamisi, who is the daughter (or "mwana") of a man named Hamisi. I know of two people with that name.

Then there are names with positive, optimistic or hopeful connotations: such as Smart, Rich, Innocent, Kupenda (to love), Safiri (to travel) or Bora (best).

Equally common are names with negative connotations: Siwema (wema = goodness; si = not), unlucky, clumsy or the one I most recently learned: Hitler.

My roommate explained the latter names this way: if a family has one child and name her Grace and she dies, and they have another and name him Luck and he dies, they may think they have jinxed themselves and name the third child Unloved. If that child lives, they may think they have found the fix to their curse and continue to name their children in this vein.

Apparently the names Kurua and Doto (and also Buruku and Toy?) are often given to twins in order of their birth, seemingly regardless of gender.

Some others are of religious origin: Marys, Deuses, Johns, Husseins and Emmanuels. My favorite in this genre is "Godliver," which was meant to be "Godlover," but I like the first name best; some people tease, but I say it's not chopped liver.

And of course I am glossing over the myriad Western names (Franks, Georges, Willys, but unfortunately no Martinas), which are occasionally fronts for a much more interesting (at least to me) Tanzanian name.

No matter what many women are called, their name will be changed in adulthood. Women are often named after their firstborn, and they are therefore wise to choose that name carefully. A woman called "Mama Anna" had a firstborn named Anna; someone called "Mama Hawa" had a firstborn named Hawa (Eve). Wouldn't it be interesting to be called the "Mother of ___" your firstborn?

This is true with the exception of Mama Lisha (≈ "Mother Graze" or "Mother Nutrition") which refers to women who sell snacks on the street.

With all of these names, I am one of the few Roberts, or for that matter Robarts, Robartis or Robus. I guess as long as I am not confused with a robot sent from the future, I don't really mind what I'm called.