Comfort in Discomfort

When Trump was elected president, I can't even count how many people said to me how I lucky I was I wouldn't be around to see it through. I think it must have just been a way for people to cope with the weight of what had happened, because now it doesn't really make any sense. I'm still American and I'll be home in half a year. It's actually been quite difficult being here feeling alone this week while the people I love are back home uniting. Luckily I'm living with another American so I've had someone to commiserate with, but in this small town, if people are even familiar with Trump, they aren't expressing any opinions about him. I watched the inauguration in a hotel bar in Arusha, shouting at the TV as I downed a bottle's worth of cheap wine. The bartenders were quite amused by the passionate/drunk American girl, but when we asked how they felt about the new president, they didn't really have much to say. The United States may be the "leader of the free world" but I'm not exactly in that free world right now and what leads here is simply survival.

Watching the women's march this weekend has been remarkable and inspiring, but honestly it's also a little alienating. I feel so proud of the women (and men) I love who are marching, but it also feels impossible to relate to because the women here are living such a different reality. Will we all eat today? Will there be enough water for the cows? Will I have a job tomorrow? Will my husband? It would never occur to the women in Mto wa Mbu to organize a political protest; not only is it illegal to speak out against the government, it would just get in the way of the things they need to do to survive.

Women line the streets of Mto wa Mbu selling fruit until well past sundown

This morning I went for a run down a back road and felt embarrassed in my expensive work out gear with my phone in my hand, passing by women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads to market, teenagers with stacks of green bananas piled six feet high on the backs of their bicycles and shepherds leading their goats as tuk tuks and motorbikes dodged around them. Every day it is so clear that I am a stranger in a very strange world. 

Our new student Losotu stands outside his boma 

One of the best parts about seeing the world is exposing myself to these differences, even when they make me uncomfortable - and usually they do. I'm very lucky because as a part of the organization for which I work, I have a pretty all-access pass to some of the incredibly intimate realities of village life.

Last week I got to enter a boma, which is a Maasai home made from mud and cow dung. While it is possible to go inside these on tourist expeditions, they are typically a little more staged and there is some monetary reward for the owners of the homes. Instead, I was inside the home of a sweet Maasai mama with seven kids (who may or may not all have been hers); we were there to confirm a prospective student truly lived within our selection boundaries. It was completely dark and amazingly cool inside and the mama was shy and sweet - an extreme introvert willing to welcome us into her home so that her son might get the chance to attend our school. Her young baby screeched in fear and tucked into her arms when seeing us - I was later told it was because we were likely the first white people the baby had ever seen. The other children were amazed to touch the skin on my arms and totally enthralled by seeing themselves on my digital camera; I don't know if it was seeing their own faces or the action of swiping the touch screen - which they took turns doing gleefully - that gave them more joy.

Two days ago I visited the Maasai market, which happens every Thursday just outside of my town. All morning vendors make the trip from neighboring villages to sell their wares. Some come on foot with baskets on their heads or pushing loaded wooden carts, while others hire tuk tuks so impossibly full of bananas and gigantic bags of beans that it's a wonder they aren't tipping over. Women set up blankets in the raging sun, on which they rest carefully arranged piles of onions, mangos, lentils and dried fish. Further up the market you'll find long stretches of "shops" where you can choose from an assortment of second hand clothing, accessories shipped from China and a hodge podge of sandals, dress shoes and sneakers. Finally, after walking through the textile traders who offer large pieces of Maasai fabric, blankets and tablecloths, you make your way to the livestock market. This is where you'll find the men. 

They bring their herds of goats and cows to be auctioned off. The best ones are gone by late morning, so when we arrived it was pretty slim pickins; I can't imagine anyone successfully selling the scrawny, emaciated animals that were left, so I choose to believe that they will take them home and do their best to fatten them up, giving them at least another week to live. Last in the market is what we'll call the row of food carts. Young women cook up giant pots of soup, filled to the brim with every part of an animal you could image: intestines, feet, stomach, hair. There are also men butchering meat right there to be cooked to order over a hot flame. I was told not to take pictures in the market unless invited to do so. One of the butchers was a friend of my companion and he said it would be okay, so this is the only thing I could document. Apologies for the gruesome photo, but hey, it's kind of a gruesome business. 

This week I've watched parents bombard our executive director all over town to try to convince her their child should get into the school regardless of their merit. I've seen locals get angry with my friend Sheb for trying to help me get a reasonable price (they seem to all believe that he should be on their side just because I'm white). My first night here we passed a wreck with a man stuck in the cab of the truck; there were dozens of men on the side of the road in the dark, working together to build some sort of makeshift jaws-of-life tool to help get the man out, though he appeared to already be dead. It seems like every day I am exposed to a new kind of challenge, be it glimpses of poverty or simply cultural unknowns. 

But I've also watched countless children giggle with delight when I smile and wave or even better yet, attempt to greet them in Swahili. I've seen dadas (which means sister and is used to describe women my age), express sincere gratitude at the business we've conducted and I felt happy knowing that what seemed like a negligible amount to me was incredibly valuable to them. When our car died on the way to Arusha and I hopped out to push, a police officer who had undoubtedly just been bribing someone else, joined me and we laughed as we pushed the Land Cruiser together - he in his uniform and me in my flip flops. Best of all, I watched more than twenty children show up on their first day of school at Mungere with the biggest smiles on their faces, knowing that their futures had suddenly just become a lot brighter.

The new Form I students race to get in line for introductions on their first day of school

This is why I travel. To see the things that can be incredibly hard and different but are inevitably beautiful and real. Each day that goes by I become a little more comfortable here but I doubt Africa will ever stop surprising me.