Last week was my birthday! And a fine birthday it was. The big day falling on a Friday I spent the morning teaching, ate a delicious lunch of makande (boiled maize kernels and beans) and chai at school, then booked it home to relax for the evening. I listened to my iPod, put on blue jeans, and painted my toenails to compliment my freshly shaved my legs. Since I was on my own for my birthday (save for a few Tanzanians who don’t seem to celebrate birthdays) I decided to be an All-American Girl for a day. It was a welcome respite from life as a Tanzanian — my birthday was the first day at site I’ve listened to my iPod or shaved my legs, and the first time since leaving Philadelphia I’ve worn blue jeans. I also made cookie dough for breakfast. I’ve been trying to de-Americanize myself as much as possible to make room for a little Tanzanian in me, but I’m finding (as expected) that in many cases it’s damn near impossible, difficult, or just plain inconvenient.
First there are, of course, those things I have no control over, such as cooking over a portable charcoal or kerosene jiko, washing clothes by hand, living without electricity, and conserving water. Whether I like it or not these aspects of Tanzanian culture and village life I must accept. Sure I could buy a gas stove and set it on a custom made table all for the cost of an entire month’s stipend, but I’d rather save that money for a trip to Kili. I don’t so much mind cooking anymore, especially now that I hardly do it: in the four weeks since school has started I’ve cooked a meal maybe six times. Lunch is served so late I’m not hungry in the evenings and a few cups of chai maziwa (milk tea) is enough for me. (Another thing I’ve no control over: the Tanzanian daily schedule.) Hand-washing clothes I could certainly do without, however. It’s got to be my absolute least favorite household chore, even more so than cleaning my choo with a corncob brush. Scrubbing clothes together until the skin falls off my knuckles is not something I do just for fun, and in fact if Tanzanian’s weren’t so bent on being immaculately clean every day then I wouldn’t mind a stain or two now and then. And lastly there’s electricity and running water, two thing which I’ve gotten used to not having, and which nearly every household in my village lacks. Only a (comparatively) affluent few have solar, enough to charge a cell phone, a few lights, or occasionally power a television to watch the nightly news. For me lack of electricity means my phone is seldom charged and I read by a lantern at night.
Then there are aspects of the culture which I accept, albeit some with a touch of reservation. The dress, for one: while I admire my skirts made from Maasai robes and my light cotton batik dresses, I flippin’ love wearing pants. Problem is I can’t wear them. Not to teach, at least, and not if I want to be seen as anything more than just another mzungu. I’ve also come to accept and rather enjoy the copious amounts of sugar in my tea during the daily chai break. My teeth may be rotting but at least my tea is damn good. As is my food. I happen to look forward to Friday afternoons because one, it means the weekend is near, and two, it means makande for lunch. Lunch in the staffroom is a hoot when everyone comes together — most of the teachers are younger than me and joking and horseplay abound. It all transpires in Kiswahili, of course, which only makes me realize how much my language skill has plummeted since school opened, since most of my time is spent teaching in English.
And finally, a few aspects of Tanzanian culture I outright reject, I simply disagree with, and I don’t see myself ever getting used to. First and foremost, beating kids with a stick. Corporal punishment. The only punishment given at school is either extra work cleaning the school grounds or, usually, a few slaps with a stick on the hands or the butt cheeks. They aren’t terribly gentle slaps, either — these teachers really give it to the kids. Going down a line of 30 kids they’ll go through four or five sticks, each student getting four strokes. When it’s my turn to oversee the discipline of the students, I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Sure, every now and then I just want to slap a smart-alec kid in the face but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it. And the same with dogs. Kicking a dog in the gut like it’s a goddamn field goal is not something I find funny or that I do for enjoyment. But some people here do. In America we treat our cats and our dogs like pets, like our friends, like one of the family. Sometimes my dog here even sleeps on my bed at night. But to many Tanzanians cats and dogs are commodities, useful things that serve a purpose in the house. Cats kills mice, dogs scare off intruders. My dog keeps me company and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her roam free at night when there are warthogs and hyenas and maybe even leopards roaming in the darkness.
Getting used to life in Tanzania is tough, but it’s fun. I’m now 25 years old, only one-fifth through my life, as I like to say, and I like to think I’m spending my days wisely. Though some things make me miss home more than others, like reading J.D. Salinger novels and short stories and becoming nostalgic for New York City, like I know the city by hand or something (which is in no way true). And wearing my Tom’s shoes with holes in them makes me think of good ol’ HoC in Austin. And OH MAN music… the Decemberists song playing on my iPod makes me miss speakers and surround sound. Lots of things to look forward to… both in America and here.
