Party in the U.R.T

Yesterday was super African. Yes, every day is technically African now, but some days here are different. These ones are so rare and unlike my life at home that they’re nearly impossible to describe. But I’ll try. Disclaimer: vegetarians and animal lovers might not be super into the contents of this post. 

This weekend we threw a staff party to celebrate the new school year and the fantastic exam results we just received. All week the teachers have been seeping excitement because they know what a staff party means: nyama choma mbuzi. A whole roasted goat. This is a big deal here. There is a ritual to it. And frankly, it's expensive - by African standards anyway.

I decided early in the week that I wanted to be a part of the whole experience of buying and eating the goat, so on Thursday I went to the market while Sheb haggled with a number of Massai herders to find the perfect meal. Then I rode in the back of Kifaru (the name of our 4x4, which means Rhino) with Sheb and the terrified goat, who nuzzled it’s head in my lap in fear and licked my leg… I’m not sure why. Because I knew I’d later be eating it, I did my best not to attach much sentiment to the car ride lest it make the rest of the process much harder. However, I did forbid Faye from giving him a name when she tried. The goat lived at the school for a couple of days, where the groundskeeper and students took care of him — and chased him across campus when he ran away. We caught the tail end of this escape attempt, driving up to school just as the kids were wrangling him back in across the soccer field. 

Yesterday I woke up early and spent the morning scrambling to get some work done before everyone started showing up. I didn’t realize how many of them would come so early, but I should have guessed since they'd all been glowing about it all week. I was still working on the porch in my pajamas when Sheb and Ema rode up on a motorbike, sitting mishkaki with the goat between them (more on what that means here). He told me they’d laid down cloth between them all in case the goat decided to pee on the way. This sight itself was hilarious, but was made funnier to me as I immediately had an image of Harry and Lloyd riding frozen through Colorado: “Just go man.”

Within five minutes, four men had turned up and were preparing for the slaughter. They chopped down banana leaves from my backyard to make a blanket on which they would butcher the goat. The slaughter had to be performed by a Muslim so that our many Muslim staff could partake in the meal. As it turns out, the man who stopped by briefly to perform the ritual was a true master. While three of my colleagues held the goat down, he cleanly slit the throat and the goat bled out in moments. He didn’t scream or move. It felt very humane; as much as animal murder can be I guess. 

The goat killer was gone as quickly as he came and then Ema, our groundskeeper and resident butcher, got to work. He’s Massai and told me he’d been cutting up goats since he was a small boy - too many to count. The process of finding a knife sharp enough for the task at hand wasn't easy, but once we did it took him two hours to remove the skin, which came off in one piece, and carefully slice the pieces of meat apart. They eat it all. Every last bit. Liver, heart, intestines, tail.

Each part is prepared differently - the organs and ribs cooked on the barbecue, the haunches and legs roasted on sticks over a flame, the intestines and fat simmered long and slowly in a salty broth. The cooking began at around 1pm and until shortly before dark, the meat flowed freely. I’ve never seen more meat in my life. First came bites of spleen and heart; I didn’t try the former but the latter was surprisingly good. The texture was both tender and firm but the flavor was mild. Then slowly came the ribs, thighs and legs. It’s all cooked plain with no seasoning, but you squeeze lime over the meat and dip it in salt. Each piece had a completely different texture and taste, but every bite was fantastic. Every time a plate was emptied, Ema showed up with another. Each refill had some new cut to try, cooked to varying levels of rareness and always to perfection.

As we let our stomachs settle, we played corn hole with bags made from Masaii fabric. We drank straight from bottles of Konyagi, which is their cheap, local version of gin. Many teachers who "don’t drink" drank; what happens in the home is very different than what happens on the street. We had a dance party on our porch blasting mostly Bongo Flava songs on repeat. Many of the staff members don’t speak English so dancing together finally gave us a chance to become friends as we laughed and fist pumped to songs we only sometimes knew. We sent home teachers who got too drunk in tuk tuks. At some point I discovered someone had left the faucet running in the bathroom for god knows how long. I think someone else either threw up in the shower or cleaned piles of foliage from their body - this one I'm not totally clear on. The kitchen floor was an absolute disaster - caked in dirt from forty feet covered in African dust and sprinkled with oil from the massive loads of chips (fries) that Ma B made to accompany the meat. As the alcohol tapered, people slowly trickled out, some saying goodbye and some who just disappeared. Every last bit of the goat was eaten. Every last beer in the fridge was gone.

It was like any party I’ve ever hosted in the U.S. Except it wasn’t. Cause it was African.

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If It's There, It's There

I can’t help but think of a story my family was laughing about over Christmas this year. It’s a fully acknowledged fact that my oldest brother Cory had it much harder than the other two kids in the family. I think it’s probably the case for most families: As parents learn to be parents they ease up a bit on the strictness. Cory was recalling the time he got kicked off the bus for a week and my parents refused to give him a ride. Each day that week he had to wake up an hour early to walk almost three miles to school and then do it again on the way home. As an added bonus, my parents made him stop into their restaurant, which was on the way, just to prove he hadn’t gotten a ride from someone else. Cory remembers this as one of the most arduous and humiliating punishments of his childhood. 

Walking an hour each way to school over here is just a rite of passage. I'm not sure I'm ever going to get used to the sight of dozens and dozens of children, sometimes as young as four or five, walking alone along the highway in their primary school uniforms. The area from which Mungere School pulls our students is wide enough that some of the students walk an hour and a half each way every day. When the rains come, schlepping through mud can sometimes double the journey time. During the second day of student selection this year, a few of the kids forgot to bring back their registration numbers from day one. When they arrived empty handed and were questioned about it, none of them blinked twice. They turned around, headed home swiftly and returned an hour later with their numbers. These kids spent two full days that week waiting in the hot sun for their turn to take the exam, interview with the staff and be given a chance.

More than sixty prospective students wait for their turn to be interviewed. 

They want to go to school. They’ll do whatever it takes, including tell white lies, to try to earn a place in the student roster. The Mungere students come with clean uniforms and clean hands, yet somehow I can’t seem to keep the dirt out of my grimy fingernails for more than ten minutes. Every morning they tidy up the school: rearranging desks, mopping floors and even sometimes landscaping the shrubs and grass. They help in the school garden to grow food for their own lunches. In fact, the newest class of students spent the entire first week of the year gardening. They took down rows of overgrown bougainvillea, hand-tilled dozens of beds of soil, pruned banana trees and watered for hours. They did this to show us their work ethic; to learn the importance of contributing back to the school; to see that the food they would eat comes from their hands and those of their classmates. Simply put: They work hard. And they do all of this with a smile.

Mungere students work in the garden during their activity period. 

There's an expression in Tanzania: "If it's there, it's there" or "Kama ipo ipo tu" in Swahili. I think this can most closely be compared to our expression: "It is what it is." My mom used to say this to me when I was a kid and I despised it. It always felt like such a mom way to say "deal with it." Now, I really love it and say it often myself. It helps me accept things that I can't explain or cannot change. Oh mom, turns out you're pretty smart.

I think this is a big part of the Tanzanian reality. If this is the way it is, then that's the way it's going to be. Doing physical labor at school is not only accepted but expected. Working hard for your education and for your family. Waking up at dawn to walk to school or a neighboring town for market day. Never knowing if you will have electricity (it went out across the whole town for 48 hours this weekend) and not complaining when you don't.

Tanzanian rapper Chemical sings lyrics I don't understand, presumably about this idea of "if it's there, it's there." Mostly I thought you might like to hear some Tanzanian Bongo Flava.

It's a really important perspective for me to consider right now as I'm watching my own country both fall apart and come together. For what feels like the first time in my life, I'm seeing huge masses of people back home standing up for what they believe in. It's so easy for us to complain about our lives, to disagree with what's happening, to wish things could be different. But it's rare that any of us actually try to change things, whether it's a job we dislike or a politician we oppose. I'm proud to see that instead of saying "I don't like this but, meh, what can I do?" Americans are starting to say "I don't like this and this is what I can do!" I guess maybe it isn't always what it is.

But over here... it might be. The big difference I see is that instead of complaining, they just live it. I don't exactly mean to glorify the people here. Trust me, Tanzanians have their own infuriating cultural norms. For example, they'd rather lie to you than tell you something you don't want to hear; I think this goes back to the same idea - it is what it is, so instead of just being honest, they try to explain it away. We went camping this weekend and the wonderfully sweet woman who ran the campsite ultimately told us lie after lie when things didn't work out as planned: Why didn't the kayak I rented ever show up at the lake? Because the guide wasn't here to bring it. Why are the menu items listed not available? Because the car broke down and the chef is stuck in town. Why did you say you would cook us meat if we brought it but now you say you can't? Because we don't have the charcoal. I've heard this called the "Tanzanian Truth." Perhaps this is their version of "Alternative Facts?"

Form I students take a break from gardening. They love yelling"pitcha, pitcha" whenever I have my camera.

These are the things that take some getting used to over here. While I'm impressed every day by the work ethic and tenacity of most people I meet, I'm also frustrated by the total unpredictability of outcomes. It's one thing to expect things to go awry; it's another entirely to never know who is telling the truth. I'm both put at ease by the simplicity of life and disillusioned to know that things are unlikely to change for the people here.

Every culture is so different. I'm currently floating between two very different ideologies - my homeland is fighting against that with which they don't agree, while my new neighbors are simply living the life they were given. It's probably a good thing for me to cultivate a little of both philosophies inside of me. There are plenty of things you cannot change and accepting them is important, but for those you can, fight back!

Special shout out to all those of you back home fighting the good fight right now. I'd join you if I could.

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