The Ball Drops

Happy New Year!!! 2010, crazy year. 2011, willing to put some money down, gonna be crazier. I base this on the assumption that 2011, for me anyway, is the year of the Wildebeest. Africa, all year long, probably the only year of my life I’ll spend away from the US of A. Get to how I spent my New Year’s Eve in a bit, but for this particular blog post, especially since it’s going up at the same time as a rather sermon-like Christmas post, I thought I would stick to some little stories of the days and nights of Africa.

Some of you have heard this one, but it’s undeniably awesome...so bear with me. My neighbor and confidante comes to me one day and asks me if we can talk about a kitu cha siri (secret thing). I say, sawa (okay). So he tells me that he has been talking with another man, who wanted to know if I could help him out with the sale of a particular item. What item, inquires the volunteer? It appears that our unnamed villager has acquired some mercury. Mercury? Yes, mercury. How did this gentleman acquire this mercury. From a factory. Okay....we’ll go with that. Can I sell this mercury? Nope. Why not? Because I’ve lived here 2 months, and my training did not cover markets in rare materials, which may or may not be a bit hot. Ok, says my counterpart.

A month passes.

Once again, my counterpart throws a “Hodi” my way (sort of a verbal ‘knock knock’). I say come on in, the chai is fine. Have I figured out where to sell the mercury yet? Nope, haven’t knocked that item off the list yet. But you’ve asked? Sure. Why not. So my counterpart inquires as to whether or not I might be able to facilitate a transaction between our same enterprising villager and a as-yet-to-be-found buyer. A transaction regarding what item? The mercury? No no, though that would be nice. But lo, our mysterious purveyor of industrial chemicals has come across a new toy. What? Uranium. Uranium? Yeah...uranium. Where is said uranium? Like, do I need to put on my lead bib? Oh, it’s safe. Of course it’s safe. The village doesn’t have running water, but the uranium is in a controlled environment. And now I’m wondering...how long till I’m peddling homespun weapons of mass destruction? Do I have the power to get a country on the axis of evil? Could I myself get on the axis of evil? Fingers crossed.

New Year’s Day, I’m in church. Cuz I was raised right, god-fearin and church-goin. At the end of Mass (a cool two hours), we do the collection. Before the collection, the Katakista asks us all for a special, year-starting donation, for the purposes of adding rooms on to the church. So we pony up, we dig deep in the pockets. Tanzanians always announce the amount of contribution. So we have to count it. Whilst they count the money, we sing, we dance, and I notice, that in addition to the lock box of cash, someone has placed a paper bag...perhaps in lieu of a donation. And sure enough, when we read the totals, we have contributed: eighteen thousand shillings, half a debe of corn (about 10 liters), and a simbilisi. To answer the obvious question, simbilisi is a Kihehe word. It means guinea pig. At which point, appropriately, the bag begins to move...and I begin to wonder. Some days, the cat does drive me crazy. Maybe some Sunday morning your boy saves himself his usual five hundred shilling donation...and the Catholic Church gets a bona fide rat catcher. Just kidding. I hope.

Out running one day, notice a bunch of holes dug in the sand. What are these, I wonder? So on the way back, I realize that there are 10 holes, dug in two rows of five. They have a few rocks, or peach pits, in each hole. At which point I realize that I am looking at a game board. It’s a wonderful African parlor game called Mancala. And your boy just ran straight through the parlor. My manners, oh my manners.

The mbunge (basically our congressman) came into town. Fielded questions from anybody who wanted to ask them. Have heard a lot of bad stories about a lot of representatives, but everybody here seems to think he’s doing well, and he doesn’t make a habit of promising things beyond his reach. The only reason I mention the story is that one of the questions he fielded was from one of the village elders, who wanted to know what he could do about the price of sugar. In some ways, ridiculous. In some ways, a hell of a lot more relevant than the hoops we make our politicians jump through.

I have a bike! I’ve got a bike, you can ride it if you like, it’s got a basket, a bell that rings, and things that make it look good (Pink Floyd, Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Really, really weird album.) Bought it in Mafinga (note Fozzie Bear). Spent a decent amount of shillings on it. Also had it shoved into the back of a Kosta, came out looking like a Dali bike. Anywho, gave it to the fundi wa baiskeli (bike repair guy). He does pretty quick work, has it ready to ride around 10 the next morning. I’m sitting in his yard, watching him work. My counterpart tells me that he is a very famous fundi. I pay the famous fundi. I board the bike, head off to visit my nearest mzungu (whitey) neighbor, a delightful Wisconsonian named Kenzie. I get about a kilometer down the road, reach the bottom of a hill, and start to pedal for the first time. At which point one pedal comes off. I put it back on, try pedaling delicately. The pedal now comes apart like a banana unpeeling itself. Thanks, famous fundi. Haven’t yet learned the Kiswahili for refund. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t either.

Speaking of Mzungu. I hear it every day, normally shrieked by tiny children in a tone of voice that grates at the molars. It’s pronounced m-ZOOn-goo. And that is exactly what I am. I’m the zoo animal. Very high end. I’m a big white polar bear, with his own spiffy cave. And the cave is safe. But I get so little work done there. Listening to U2 the other day, ‘Breathe’. Great line in the song that goes, “every day I have to find the courage to walk out into the street.” And it’s...it’s actually legitimately hard. I’m a freak. A friendly one, who speaks the language. But I don’t belong. And some days that really sucks, to be stared at, to be different. On the other hand, in America, the very sight of me doesn’t induce shrieks of delight from random children. There are pluses, there are minuses. But every day I make a point to go for a walk, to see people, to have them see me. I call it showing the flag. Kuonyesha bandera.

For a few weeks, I would see flashes of light in the distance at night. Didn’t know what they were. Asked a guy in the street. He said, “sayansi” (science). Thanks. Didn’t believe that it was lightning. No thunder, really cold for heat lightning. But that’s what it is. And it comes in every night. It’s everywhere, ominous and silent. What is not silent is the nearby drummers. Most nights they start up around nine. Drums, somewhere in the distance. Children shrieking. Feels like a ritual. I’ve thought about going out one night and finding the drums. Just like I’ve thought about asking some of the science teachers to explain the cold lightning. But I haven’t. Because right now I have these beautiful mysteries. The drummers with no faces, the lightning with no voice. And maybe learning more doesn’t always make something better. There are so few mysteries left. I’m not ready to risk ruining mine.

People talk about this experience changing you. I get what they’re saying...but I don’t agree. It’s not like I’m changing. It feels more like I’m being distilled. Things seem to mean more, and I want to do more with them. It is almost like I’m getting closer to the center of me. Like I’m more Dan Waldron than I ever used to be. As my bald buddy put it, you start to feel like a round peg in a round hole. It’s taken a while, but it is a beautiful thing to feel at home in your own head, welcome in your own skin.

So New Year’s Eve. Went over to my neighbor’s house. He sparked up the generator, and we watched Tanzanian television for four hours. Clock hits midnight, we stand up and sing the Tanzanian national anthem. And it’s a nice moment. I head back to my house. It’s a beautiful night. I pull my folding chair out into the lawn. I spark up a cigar, I open a tiny bottle of Scotch. My lovely lady calls, and that’s wonderful. My family calls (the donators of said scotch and stogie), and it’s amazing. And last, my boy Kucz calls. Because the people I love are amazing. And Mom asks at some point, “I bet the stars are unbelievable, aren’t they?” And all I can say...is “yup”. Because beautiful doesn’t cut it, not tonight. Remembering that Incubus song, with the poem about the backlit canopy with holes punched in it. And I wish you were here. But what a beautiful night. Haven’t had much Scotch in a while. Which might explain why 2am finds your boy outside, dancing under the stars to “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”, performed by the Band, whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other, as stupid and happy as I ever hope to be, dancing the night away. It’s gonna be a good year.