Snake Park

Eid

On the eve of Eid, the Muslim holiday that marks the end of Ramadan, I was in a state of confusion, sadness, and a little leftover anger. Scott and I had just participated (me more so than him) in our first verbal blowout with other members of the Orkeeswa teaching staff, mainly the headmaster and the second head. While most work-related quarrels would normally leave a person merely angry or frustrated, I was hurt because both of those individuals – the headmaster and the second head, Robert and Thomas – are also friends of Scott and I. In fact, Thomas was the first person in Tanzania we called a friend.

I’m surprised at myself that I haven’t really blogged about Thomas. Early on in our time in Tanzania, Thomas, the math and physics teacher, offered to show us around Arusha. He helped Scott buy work pants. He invited us to his home which he shared with several cousins, and then to his grandmother’s home. He showed us where the different bus stands were. Whenever he can be, Thomas has always tried to be extremely accommodating and helpful. During our first break from school, Scott and I went to Dar es Salaam with Thomas. We met his brother’s family, traveled to Bagomoyo, shared a hotel room with him, and even accompanied Thomas to a friend’s wedding. Our friendship with Thomas has always been easy. During our month-long break from school, he called or text to see how we were, to say we were missed. When Thomas lived in Arusha, we moved around with him, ate roasted corn. Now that he lives in Monduli, we often meet up with him in our larger group that includes almost all the teaching staff for drinks and food. We joke around in the teachers’ office and he’s shared with us his dreams of higher education. Overall, having Thomas as a friend has made our time in Tanzania infinitely more rewarding and fun.

So, because we are both friends and co-workers, our school teaching staff quarrel, which was mainly between Thomas and I, was infused with hurtful words – I’m ashamed to say – from both sides.

Sometime in the middle of the night before Eid, Scott found me crying. Perhaps more than anything else, knowing that I’ve hurt someone sends me to a state of utter sorrow. I’ve never dealt well with conflict resolution. I can count on my hand the number of times close friends have been mad at me; I try beyond anything else to avoid conflict, usually to the point of ignoring my own needs or wants. I get so wracked with guilt. I had a friend in college who used to always say I had a guilt disorder. I was crying because I believed I had hurt Thomas beyond repair, that our cultural differences had led the words to cause deeper wounds than they ordinarily would’ve between people of the same cultural understanding and norms.

On the morning of Eid Friday, a surprise day off from school, I resigned myself to staying at home while Scott had plans to go hiking with another co-worker, Ben. We were paid a visit from Peter, the director of the school, who wanted to talk about the “conflict.” He had just come from talking to Thomas and assured us that all would return to normal between us, that with some work positive things could come from the situation. I left the discussion feeling better but not all together assured that Thomas would forgive us, forgive me.

As soon as we walked back into the house after saying goodbye to Peter, I glanced at the phone and saw that there was a text message. It was Thomas, inviting Scott and I to visit his brother. This was something the three of us had been planning on doing the whole week but Scott and I had figured it was forgotten about since the fight. Thomas had not forgotten about it. Scott didn’t go hiking. We met Thomas at the bus stand and greeted each other with smiles and laughter, like nothing had happened. Eid, the holiday where Muslims are encouraged to forgive and forget any differences or past animosities seemed to be working its charm on three non-Muslims.

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We hopped on the daladala headed for Kisongo, a town and village located between Monduli and Arusha. Kisongo is where Thomas grew up, during a time when there were less houses and more bush, before his grandmother sold their land to the A to Z Company, a factory that George W. visited during a tour of Tanzania a couple of years ago. His grandmother now lives in Arusha, and Thomas’s mother has a boma near the original site.

Our intention was to visit Lose, Thomas’s brother who had hosted us when we were in Dar es Salaam. He was in town visiting for a week. We knew we’d also have the opportunity to meet Thomas’s mother. What we didn’t realize was that all (with the exception of one sister) of Thomas’s siblings were there that day – four older brothers and a sister – among other family and friends. After visiting with Lose’s wife and their baby daughter who was only three days old when we met her in Dar, we ended up sitting outside in a circle of Maasai men eating a just slaughtered and roasted goat. I sat next to Thomas and held the large greasy pieces of meat handed to me as Thomas sliced them into smaller bite size pieces. Scott was sitting next to family friends who offered him, besides just meat, pieces of the liver and esophugas. We were also offered a traditional medicinal goat soup that Scott had witnessed the making of. Scott told me the ingredients included among many other things a goat head, Acacia roots and bark, some leaves, coagulated goat blood, all of which are drained out to leave a heavy, greasy broth. We each took big mugs of the soup and drank it up. We were told by Lose that it would make us pee a lot. I was actually hoping the medicinal qualities of the soup would cure my stomach which had started reeking havoc a couple days earlier. After I started drinking the soup, I ended up peeing four times at Thomas’s mother’s house. But I don’t think the medicinal part ever kicked in.

As early evening set in, Lose drove Thomas, Scott, and I to the dala stand in Kisongo so we could head back to Monduli. Lose said that he was very lucky for getting to see us again and we reciprocated the kind words. He was heading back to Dar the next day, a long car journey. Although we all said we hoped to see each other again, the chances of that are unlikely. The fact that Thomas ever wanted Scott and I to meet his older brother who he looks up to and respects more than anyone else has always touched me. For this holiday of Eid, that fact that Thomas offered forgiveness by inviting us to spend the day with his family is a gesture I will never forget.

Thomas (far left) and his brothers. The little guy in front of Thomas is his nephew Baracka whose English was amazing. After a quick lesson, he stayed occupied with my camera like my students do. Unlike my students, he was actually quite good at taking pictures.

Nyangusi's Boma

For some reason, words aren't coming to me so easily these days. So here are some photos taken in late July of our visit to Nyangusi's boma.

Walking from school.

Scott with Kesuma, Nyangusi, and Issack.

Nyangusi's family

It’s a quiet Thursday evening. I can make out the crickets and stillness. This is rare. Our neighbor and owner of the house we live in, Mzee Mbazi, has a small group of guard dogs that usually make listening to stillness impossible. They bark throughout the night. When I first moved here, I doubted that I would ever get used to it as our roommate Melissa had said she was. But now I am. But I still prefer this – now – this lack of sound, except for the crickets.

During one of the first months we lived here, I brought my recorder outside with me in the early morning. Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I made a visit to the outdoor squatter, and the sounds surrounding me at that hour astonished me. It was a cacophony of the wild, a natural symphony in my own backyard. The waking sounds of birds, insects, and other creatures unfamiliar to me. I wanted to capture this sound because it was no novel, so exotic. I don’t know what it is – if the dry season that we’re in now doesn’t sustain such a morning alarm, or if I’m just used to it now – whatever it is, I can’t hear it as well anymore. I go out to the squatter and the volume of nature seems turned down.

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There’s nothing quite so satisfying as a finished round of hand-washed underwear.