My village's dog FAQs

Scene: talking to the women down by the road. Their agenda is to get me to marry their cousin. The topic turns to my dog. 

Woman: why is your dog skinny? Have you seen OUR dog? He's gotten fat. Are you feeding your dog?

Me: "of course I feed him, he just hasn't gotten fat yet"

Cousin: (in English): "he has a maintained figure."

~~~~~~~~~~

Questions people (mostly kids but some adults) have asked me about my dog:

"Are you going to take him to America? He's gonna need a passport right?"

"Does your dog have a cellphone?"

"Have you trained your dog yet to take money to the market and bring you back vegetables? Dogs do that in Europe don't they?"

"Your dog needs a female, when are you gonna get him one?"

"Say hi to your dog for me!"

"What have you brought?!"

"Let's go slaughter him!"

"When does he need his shots again?"

"Who feeds him when you're gone? Is that person a Muslim?"

"Have you gone hunting with him yet?"

"Give him soup! He'll get fat!"

(On the bus/ in town): "where's your dog? Why did you leave him at home?"

:)

Ol Doinyo Lengai

At a certain point in your life, you find yourself on the side of an active volcano, legs aching and trembling, being led down in the early morning light by the hand of a Maasai warrior, the escarpments of the great Rift Valley slowly coming into focus, reaching out in front of you. 

Just when I thought I was beginning to understand Tanzania, I go to another part, and once again am bewildered, bedazzled, and humbled by this country, this environment, and these people all over again. 

Northwest of Arusha, the landscape changes. It is a moonscape: grey ash covers the ground; there are entire fields of rounded stones; little vegetation. The terrain becomes more hilly, more mountainous. This time of year is still hot and dry, and lush vegetation is nowhere to be found; only dried grasses, scraggly acacia trees, low sparse shrubs. 

Once you see the volcano, the magma flows that substitute (poorly) for roads and the grey sand that's really volcanic ash start to make more sense. The bus bobs, weaves, and threads its way through the landscape. There are few villages along the way, and even far from houses you see Maasai tending their cattle in the hot sun. Children run up to the bus and beg, and passengers throw them their empty soda bottles or a little change. 

The wind here is fierce, especially at night. We leave the bedroom window open because without a breeze it is still quite hot inside, but the wind gusts and whistles, threatening to tear the blanket and sheets off of your body. I switch to a sleeping bag and am able to relax, listening to the wind whip across this flat part of land. 

We climbed up the volcano in the dark. About three quarters of the way there, one of my volunteer friends and I decide to rest and then turn back, because from there it only got steeper and more difficult as you approach the rim. We had been climbing up old lava flows, gripping our walking sticks and the pumice-like stone that has the unfortunate tendency to crumble under your grip. Your legs ache more than they ever have before, and the channels we follow have a layer of volcanic ash, making you feel like you're moonwalking, as your steps slide backward and you find yourself making little progress. 

So one of the guides remains with us as the rest of the gang continues on to summit. We arrange ourselves in the dark, like mountain goats, trying to find a position to rest in at this impossible angle. We turn off our headlamps and I lie down in a groove, putting my backpack under my head and settling into the ash to rest. Remarkably, the three of us all get a little sleep before waking in the cold and descending, slowly and not without slips and falls in the loose terrain. The evolution of daylight is magnificent; we climbed up in pitch darkness, and now in half-light, we can see the landscape far, far below us, the dark and shadowed patterns of lava flows, the escarpments which mark the edge of the Serengeti. 

Marco, our lodge manager, volcano guide, and Maasai warrior, sings as he capers down the mountain. He sings songs in Kimaasai, he raps, he makes up his own songs about us. He points out the flows from the last eruption, which was in 2008 and which he was here for. 

The three of us make it down without incident, and wait trepidatiously for the rest of the group. There is no cell phone service in this area, not even up on the volcano, so if anything went wrong we wouldn't know until if or when they come off the mountain. And thankfully, around late morning they come off the mountain, exhausted and covered in grey ash, weary and sore, having made it up to the summit. 

In the evenings, from our lodge you can see giraffes passing in the distance, making their graceful way towards water. There are unlikely streams here; cutting their way through sun and ash, they run clear and beautiful, arteries that life is strung out along. Herds of zebras can also be seen in the distance, resting under and around trees. 

The next day we hike up a stream to a waterfall; it is the most beautiful and refreshing thing we could ask for. Coconut palms and lush plants grow high where the water erupts from a spring, then cascades through a crevice and then down to a tall and wide tunnel that opens up again, pools and rushing water, some cool and some warm, massaging your sore muscles. 

I leave a day early to get back to my dog. Marco takes me to the stand to wait until my bus comes. He talks to me about his hopes and fears, what he's done and what he wants to do. He doesn't want his culture to be lost, but at the same time, he says, he's frustrated when he sees men who have an abundance of cattle - hundreds, thousands - at the expense of other things, such as education or good clothing for their children. It is late morning and the sun is already strong and hot, but Marco doesn't seem to notice. In his eyes are obsidian and centuries.

I board my bus and land a seat in the front, next to an older man who is a teacher and speaks good English. We pass vultures eating what seems to be a lion's kill, then a herd of zebras gallops in front of our bus. A family of baboons  moves slowly a short distance away from the road, a baby riding its mother's back.  We pass more children, who are selling an ostrich egg. An ostrich egg! And a short while later we pass a huge male ostrich. "The female mustn't be too far away," the teacher informs me. All this seen from a typically noisy bus on a typically bumpy road. 

The soil segues from volcanic ash back to the red clay I'm used to seeing where I live. But my mind has yet to depart from that land, full of tall, graceful people in their African tartans, gazing out at the mesmerizing sight of cattle walking lazily ahead of them, hides glistening, slowly whipping up a cloud of ash under their hooves. Plodding, peaceful, beautiful beasts. 

Hundreds. Thousands. 

Drying up

I planted my garden which may have been quite a mistake at this time of year. It needs about five buckets of water a day, which I have to carry from the pond down by the road. Even with that much water, only the surface is moistened. Corn and sunflowers have sprouted, but everything else is still contemplating existence under the soil in the hot sun. 

Rains won't start until November, so I can always wait until then to plant a round two to save time and energy in case this round fails. 

Every morning I still go down to the pond to get water, where there is still some clear water in the small springs and sand pits the women have dug to filter out the cloudiness of the pond water. The Chinese road construction company pulls up its two big water trucks on the far side of the raw pond, letting down big hoses powered by generators to pull up the muddy water to fill their tanks. Sometimes it feels a bit like a race; the trucks taking up water rapidly on one side, women with plastic buckets and cans of every color scooping up water by the bowlful on the other. Mechanical advantage is not something to be messed with. 

Things are progressing slowly here; in the past week or so I've been to two village government meetings regarding the water situation. Meetings are fine, except when you get there on time and have to wait an hour plus for everyone else to show up, and then evening is approaching rapidly and all you can think about is how tired you are of trying to understand rapid-fire Swahili, and how you still have to light your charcoal stove and cook. 

At the second meeting, I guess I had a bit of a dazed and glassy look to me as the meeting wrapped up, and I stepped outside as people were shifting, in an attempt to segue back to my house. The leaders called me back in and handed me a thousand shilling note. "Go get soda," they told me. I tried to decline but the sympathetic looks on their faces told me that they knew how I was feeling; exhausted and in need of a sugar pick-me-up. Maybe I should be a little more careful to not let my air of ennui show during these meetings!

Life goes on under the hot sun, shielding your eyes as you pick your way home from the pond, a bucket full of water on your head, and a rest in the shade on your mind.  

Dog jaunt

It is now the hour of alfajiri - the hour between five and six in the morning. I hear the mosque's plaintive calls from nearby, and Kitmeer's breath as it whistles gently through his nostrils as he dozes on his cushion beside my bed. 

Yesterday I took my dog for a walk. The concept of walking just to walk seems strange and foreign to Tanzanians; why would you choose to go anywhere without an apparent reason, on a hot, sunny day?

But I packed some semblance of a picnic (hard-boiled egg, banana, peanut butter bar crumbles), water, and a book, and we set off. Kitmeer is still at the stage where he loves everybody, which unfortunately is not a reciprocated emotion. He loves children, but unfamiliar ones to him will run away and screech at his approach. He will also run up to adults, although he is a little more cautious when it comes to men. If we are out away from people and a man walks by, though, Kitmeer will woof and let out a gentle growl, as if to inform me of what he is seeing. 

We wandered up towards the church and the primary school, then past, where the soil segues from farmable to sandy and desert-like. Spiky sisal plants dominate the landscape, and we roam narrow herd paths to find small oases of tree groves or single large trees who cast their shadow generously. Down into sand rivers, wandering up their water-worn rocks that have seen no flow but the slow trickle of cattle herds for a very long time. 

We turn back to revisit a large tree where to rest from the hot sun. We had been walking in and along a dried creek ravine, and Kitmeer runs ahead and plunges down a side trail, to descend into it once again. A short minute later, I hear his tormented cries, as if he was convinced the world had swallowed him up, whole and alone. I run back to where I see him crying and waiting, a small tan creature, and call to him. He clambers up the ravine again, and we continue, with him being markedly more careful to keep me in his sights. 

After resting and snacking, we make our slow way back to the village, where we slip through narrow passageways between brick buildings and Kitmeer capers spunkily around the courtyard of a woman drying pigeon pea pods. We both laugh and I stand at the entrance, trying to call Kitmeer out of her courtyard. After a few loops he follows me out. 

We rested in the shade of our home for the rest of the hot and dusty afternoon. 

Home again

The past three weeks I was away from my village for early service training and water security training. I attended both trainings with my counterpart, who is my village executive officer. I think we both learned a lot during the trainings, and it was great getting to spend time with everyone in my class, but these three weeks were very draining. 

On my way back, I was anticipating being able to get money in my banking town, but as things are wont to go, my efforts at the ATMs were stymied. So yesterday I bussed up to my "other" banking town, and luckily was able to get money there, although the bus ride there was a bit traumatizing as the vehicle must have been violating more safety regulations than usual. Long story short, I have a massive bruise on my knee and an oath never to ride that death trap again. 

After the grueling ride, I was walking through the bus stand, looking for my favorite conductor, when two ladies called me by my tribal name. In town I usually ignore pretty much everyone, unless of course they call me by name. I didn't know the ladies very well, but they knew me, and my sense of humanity started to come back into focus, as the misery of the bus ride subsided slowly. 

I had some time to kill so I got a shortbread cookie at the Indian grocery, bought dried chickpeas, and went fabric shopping and found three kitenge I had been looking for. 

I went back to the standi and found my conductor. We laugh about how we was supposed to bring bread for another volunteer who lives on my road, but due to communication issues that mission failed. We buy her more and wait in the dusty sun for it to be time to leave. 

And I went back to my village. Many are happy to see me and welcome me back and ask about where I was. Night falls and I get chai and doughnuts at my favorite chai house, and walk back home through the field of pigeon peas, shadows falling in the moonlight. 

It takes a village

I didn't have a lot planned today. Make mango chutney, take kanga to my seamstress to be hemmed, ask my village executive officer about a letter I need him to write.

I didn't plan on going to a funeral.

A little after noon I headed down to see my seamstress, but on the way I saw her little brother herding the family's bull, who told me that she had gone into town today. I also ran into her father, my carpenter, who informed me that the furniture he's building for me isn't quite ready, and he can't work on it today because there's a funeral. The burial is in the afternoon, he told me, and asked if I was heading over now. I told him I would go later. 

I dropped by to see my drugstore sister, and even she told me she was going to the burial. I asked if we could go together and she agreed. 

So I went back to my house, put some nicer clothes on, and went to find my dada again, but she was nowhere to be found. I walk to the market to see if she passed by that way, but the ladies there say they think she already went to the burial, but that I should wait for them, they'll be heading over too. So I camp out in the market for a while, and buy some fried sweet potato with "pili pili" salsa fresca, and hang out until three of the women and I finally head down to the house where the burial is. 

There are several cars and people everywhere, many people from my village but also people from out of town - mostly I can tell by the way they dress. There are women cooking, and men standing and talking. I see one man I know from church and he gestures inside, telling me to enter. There are at least two dozen women in the room, sitting on a few couches and on large mats on the floor, singing and reading prayers. The focal point is a small red and gold casket, with a photo and a wooden headboard leaned against it, reading the name of the child, not even six years old, who has died, from complications of a stomach illness, as I can best understand. 

The women are interrupted and we are told that Mass will be said now, and we file outside into the courtyard, while men carry the casket and place it on stools before the makeshift altar. Tarps have been suspended overhead, to provide some shade, and there are some chairs but I find myself with some other women standing on the sideline during Mass, with some large tanks and buckets of water behind me. The priest is aware of the large number of Muslims in attendance, and acknowledges them in greeting. 

Mass is said, then the casket is opened and a procession around it is orchestrated. The mother and close female relatives of this small boy are in poor condition; when they bring up the procession, they can barely walk, supported by other family members and friends, and launch into hysterical crying, grieving even until they let their bodies go slack and they are carried inside. 

When the procession finishes, the casket is closed again and carried a stone's throw away from the house, into the field where pigeon peas are growing, soon to be harvested, where a hole has been dug and a mound of red clay soil awaits. 

Up until now it has been a women's ceremony. I only saw one young male family member shed tears, while many women held their shawls and head wraps over their face, grieving quietly, in sympathy, in empathy. But now the men take over. More prayers are said, more holy water dispersed, and the casket is put in the ground. I stand near the small group of women who have been leading the songs throughout. All the other women except this small group disperse, to help with cooking, to sit and rest, to check on the family who is grieving hard. 

Shovels and hoes appear, and the group of more than thirty men, Christians and Muslims, start to tackle the huge mound of red soil. There are fewer than five tools, but it seems that each man seamlessly offers his help, moving the soil efficiently into the hole. The dull thud of shovelfuls of soil being tossed down is rhythmic enough to sound like a heartbeat, coming deep from the earth. 

They say it takes a village to raise a child, but they failed to mention that it also takes a village to bury one as well. For the first time today my tears are close to the surface. I know many of these men, Christians and Muslims, who are dutifully and carefully burying this small body. Most of them have children, even grandchildren, of their own. They all know, we all know, that this misfortune could have happened to any family. 

Funerals are an outlet for sadness, frustration, and grief, in this culture that seems to tamp down emotions such as these. At a funeral, tears are permitted. Mothers breaking into hysterics, even until they cannot walk, is permitted. 

And the men, still stoic, rain down soil on the remnants of a life gone too quickly. 

Hunger: the expected, but uninvited, guest

I ended my day yesterday exhausted, with what I like to call a "triple S" headache: one that stems from Sun, Smoke, and Swahili. 

Perhaps I should rewind a bit to explain it all. 

Yesterday was Idi, which is the day of celebration after the month of Ramadan. I had some idea of what to expect but nevertheless it was an entirely new experience for me. 

Things were different even from the first thing I do when I leave my house every morning: going to the spring to get water. I knew today was a holiday so I made sure to bring my own bowl to scoop water from the small shallow pools where it collects, and when I arrived I was glad I came prepared, because there were only a few young girls around the water, sent to fetch that morning. So I took water, then headed back home. 

After dropping off my water and swapping my kanga for a nicer one, I headed down to see my guesti sister, and found her eating a beans and corn dish with her four-year-old son and our friend from up the hill. She handed me tea and invited me to finish the dish with them, and I obliged, since I told myself Idi is the one day of the year I don't mind relying on other people's hospitality to feed me, since generosity and cooking pots are overflowing this day. 

We compared henna, which the three of us had applied yesterday, and then we headed out, first to stop at our seamstress's place. I'm pretty sure the poor girl didn't get any sleep last night; despite being a Christian herself, most of the village (and thus her clientele) are Muslims, who have been bringing her swaths of brightly printed fabric to sew all manner of dresses, skirts, and shirts for to wear on Idi. Our friend, a mother of twins, came here to check on her request to sew small hats for her daughters, to match their outfits for today. Our seamstress assured that they would be ready in a few hours. 

Next stop was the market to stock up on vegetables, then we got meat at two butchers who were making brisk business that day. Then we headed up to our friend's house, to cook porridge for the twins, and to start cooking pilau. 

I can't say I was much of a help during cooking; there was only one knife, which passed between the capable hands of the two other young ladies. Mama Wawili ("mother of two") cooked on the charcoal stove burning warm and toasty in the sitting room, while my guesti sister used wood to stoke a fire outside, cooking in a pot balanced on bricks over the smoky fire. I peeled garlic and onions and shuttled the bag of salt from inside to outside, while the grandma kept the twins out of range of fire and trouble. 

Finally the pilau, meat and sauce, and additional rice were cooked, and a pot was put on for tea. Mama Wawili had a small crisis when she realized she misplaced the earrings she had bought for her twins to wear. She and my guesti sister take off, thinking maybe they left them at the guesti, and return some time later, calmed down, and with the newly-sewn hats for the twins in tow. 

We eat, then my guesti sister washes her son, then wraps him in a kanga to walk back home to put on his new suit and good shoes. I head out with them, then strike out for my own home, to cuddle my puppy and take a breather from the cooking smoke and the sun that has started to shine with intensity, burning off the haze of the morning. 

I head down to my "road mama", the wonderful old lady who always beckons me if she sees me head down to the road to catch a bus on days that I travel. One of her daughters is visiting from Arusha, and I am fed again, and asked many questions, struggling, as usual, to keep afloat in this world of Kiswahili. One of the schoolteachers comes by, offering to take a photo for a thousand shillings (about 50 cents), then go to develop them in town and bring back copies. I find myself in the center of several photos, then even more as I accompany a granddaughter up to the health clinic, where swarms of children wearing their Idi best are waiting to have their pictures taken. 

Many people have invited me to come visit and eat with them today, but it would be physically dangerous, or even impossible, for me to eat that much food, as they would be disappointed and/ or offended if I didn't eat at every one of their houses. So I stuck to the two meals I had happened upon, and as the day drew to a close, I made a circuitous route to my home, as I didn't want to pass by the health clinic and have to deal with swarms of children trying to take a picture with me. I got back to my house for the most part unnoticed, drank some kool-aid, and fed my dog. I was completely exhausted from a day of loud music, salty food, and bright colors. Talk about sensory overload!

I have mentioned this briefly before, but my tribal name is Kwaari, which means Hunger. I was named such because when I first came to visit my village, it was the season of hunger, before the crops are ready to harvest. This year has been especially hard for my village, so many of whom are farmers, because the rainy season was not a good one and the corn crop, the staple food, suffered. 

Ramadan, the month of fasting, could not have come at a better time, because I think it helped my village forget the trials of the crops. Hunger is normal during Ramadan. Hunger is expected. 

I was talking to a fellow volunteer about Idi. "It's like if Christmas came after Lent," we decided, trying to categorize the festivities in terms of the Christian ones we understand and grew up with.

In my family back home, during Christmas Eve we have a tradition of preparing for the "unexpected guest". When we set the table to eat in the evening, we set one extra place, just in case someone shows up, so that we are ready to invite them to the meal and show them hospitality. 

And on the day of Idi, I found myself here, invited many places but unexpected in others, an unexpected-but-expected guest, never wanting for hospitality. 

Many people delight in my name, "Hunger", but I think that it may be a constant reminder of something that strikes very close to home this year. That kind of hunger, the kind that comes from no rain and shriveling crops, is expected. But it is certainly not invited.