Which is the funniest line from Muppet Family Christmas, wherein Grover demonstrates, with vigor, how he is NOT stirring ("as in, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse").
Hell of a thing happened the other day. It was getting a bit late in the day, a little bit dark, and I had forgotten to pick up fish for the cat (a treat I like to give him if I’m not cooking dinner). So I wandered my way down to the club, and made my way to the fishmonger’s den (entering any of these drinking chambers feels like you’re going into an orc’s lair). The lantern was lit, the lighting was eerie, but familiar. The fish were almost gone, but there were enough for the cat (he’s not overly picky). I walked in, took a look around, said a quick hello, and started picking fish. Then....slowly....I realized that something momentous had happened, in that very instant.
Nobody stopped talking. Nobody was staring raptly at the white dude. No one, in point of fact, seemed to care very much that I was there.
My mother takes pride in the fact that she (and all mothers) knew, long before scientists verified it, that children don’t grow gradually every day. They do, in fact, grow in spurts, and come down some mornings longer than you left them the night before. Somehow, that night, my villagers and I were just a little taller. In some ways, it isn’t the greatest story in the world. It probably means that my villagers are finally bored with me, that I have truly become old news. But to that I say, humbug. To become old news in an African village is the aspiration of every Peace Corps Volunteer. But it is even more than that. My friends in that room were talking about politics, and religion, and how they fit together in modern Tanzania. It was an engaging, interesting discussion, and I was ever so happy to eavesdrop in on it (another feat that was once impossible). In other words, what they were talking about IS a hell of a lot more interesting than me, and I was thrilled that they agreed. In the end, I’m talking about inclusion. I’m talking about belonging. I don’t fit in. I may never fit in. That does not mean that I do not belong.
I am currently reading a book called “Will in the World”, about the life and times of one William Shakespeare (or Shakeshafte, as he was also called). One of the earliest passages struck me. The writer was talking about how even though the language was English, anybody who was anybody spoke Latin. Latin was the language of instruction, the language of the elite, the universities. The queen and her advisers all spoke it. If you didn’t know Latin you probably weren’t worth the time to teach it. And if you take English and Latin, and substitute Swahili and English, respectively, you have the exact same condition in Tanzania.
I hate it. A lot. Swahili is a beautiful language, descending from the Bantu family of languages and heavily blended with Arabic. When it is spoken properly, it has a musicality to it that is remarkable. But what language are secondary school students and university students taught in? English. What is the language of the courts? English. What language do I hear brokenly screamed at me whenever I walk anywhere, at anytime? English.
On one hand, I appreciate the effort. Being bilingual is an admirable goal, and Tanzanians are a lot closer to it than other peoples I could name. On the other, actual hand, I hate it. What English really does, in my mind, is enforce and reinforce the idea that anything “African” is inherently inferior. Why, in God’s name, should a Tanzanian boy be learning African History in English? What purpose does that really serve? If the goal is that he learn another language, then make sure he has some great English teachers and that he does his homework. But the purpose of History is not to learn English. It’s to learn History. Let him learn that. There are all sorts of students, quick and bright, who fail Math, Science, and Civics, just because they don’t understand English, the language of instruction. Even worse, to my eyes, is the pandering to tourists, which I realize is not limited to Tanzania. Isn’t it the job of the tourist to know how to get around the country which he/she is visiting? I love any Tanzanian who automatically greets me in Swahili, expecting me to know his language, because dammit, we’re in his country. I wish more felt that way. There’s still this weird, lingering, debilitating colonial aftertaste...and it makes me sick. I’m happy to be treated well, as a guest. But it almost feels to me like it is time for some self-righteousness. I take solace in the fact that there aren’t a whole lot of English walking around spouting Latin. Perhaps these things just take time.
My pigs have arrived! I started planning a pig project with my AIDS group back in March, and 9 months later, we’re hog wild in Idetero. Before I get into any of the salient details, the pigs have the following names, courtesy of myself and one Kelsey Drake: Evil Dr. Porkchop, The Uncultured Swine, The Baconatrix, Rooter, Wilbur, Babe, Hamlet, Spider Pig, Miss Piggy, Harry Porkchop, Piglet, and Oprah. They are each being kept by a member of a group called Jipe Moyo, which is made up exclusively of people living with AIDS/HIV. I’ve written plenty about this group, so I’ll skip to the project itself.
On Monday, December 12, we had a pigkeeping training. It was done by my local livestock guy, who is the most metrosexual man you may ever find in a Third World village, fond of cashmere vests and tight white pants. Everybody passed (there were no tests). I also had everybody sign a contract, agreeing to the rules and regulations of the project (I’m my father’s son). Three or four of the group can’t read, so I read it aloud and then they put their thumbs in ink and signed it. On Tuesday, December 13, I went into town and bought over a metric ton of pig feed (mostly corn meal and sunflower cake). Then, along with help from some truly lovely people, I loaded it into the back of a beat-ass truck and somehow or other got it to the village. At that point each group member had to get it back to their own house. One member relied on two village drunks to load a 100-kilo bag onto a bicycle and push it a kilometer. I may never have laughed so hard. I had to run yelling after random villagers asking for help, but everybody got their food home. On Wednesday, December 14, I brought back medications for mange, worms, and bacterial infections. And on Thursday, December 15th, I brought home the bacon.
It wasn’t easy. The district loaned us a truck, but we had to fill it with sawdust and build something so the pigs wouldn’t jump out (in case they had tired of this world). We then picked up the swine, which involved wrangling. I caught a pig!! I was so stoked! Having loaded all the pigs (who then started biting each other), we set off. The Tanzanians with me told fart jokes. I laughed. And then we got to the village, and I hopped off to show the way, then hopped onto the back of the truck. Why the back of the truck? So I could stand up, above the truck, as we pulled into view of my group. So I could take off my hat and wave it over my head like a cowboy bringing in the herd. So I could yell “Sooooiiiiiieeeeee!”, and mean it. These are the happy times. The pigs are doing well, I visit them often. Wilbur is probably my favorite. He’s a happy pig.
It’s Christmas. Odds are strong that you knew that before you clicked on my blog. I’m not really sure what to write here. My house will have two stockings, a plastic Christmas tree, one cat, and a tall guy. Merry it will be, crowded it will not. I don’t have anything profound or germane to add on to what I wrote last year. If anything, the thing that most strikes me now is how quickly a year can leave you, how quickly this one has left me. I blinked, and it was gone, and it seems that so much of what I did, or tried to do, was just keeping up, running as the world turned, trying not to be flung off of it. But for a moment, just before the end of the year, I have a chance to catch my breath, to look backwards and forwards, unsure of what I’ve done and unsure of what I’m about to do. Because that’s what Christmas is to me. A time to reset, a time to just be joyful, and figure out how to be happier, to be better, in the year that’s to come. I’m sitting in a Tanzanian hostel. I just finished watching The Muppet Family Christmas (technology is wonderful). At one point Kermit says to Robin (his tiny protege), “Life would pass in a blur if not for times like these.” The frog speaketh truth.
I love you all. I’ll never be happy about the prospect of leaving Tanzania, but I am giddy at the idea of spending next Christmas surrounded by my wonderful friends and my incredible family. I miss each of you, and I miss all of you. Yet for this last Christmas in Africa, I’m quite happy to be here, now. These are also my friends, and I love them dearly. I’ve never known less what a new year might bring, but I’ve also never been so excited by not knowing. Thank you for reading. May your holidays be merry, may your troubles be forgotten, and may your hopes burn ever brighter. God bless us, every one.
Merry Christmas.
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