Ubaguzi

Thursday was Union Day. 48 years ago, Tanganyika (which is what continental Tanzania used to be known as) and Zanzibar united, to form Tanzania. Sort of a geo-political version of Bennifer and Brangelina. To celebrate Union Day (which I hope you all did in your own special way), Kenzie and I went to the regional Union Day celebration, which was conveniently nearby, at our local secondary school (which is two villages away). All the bigwigs and smallwigs were there, from Iringa Region, from the district, from the county, from the ward, from each of the villages, and probably from some other level of government that I’ve forgotten to mention. Also there were children from at least 6 different schools, both primary and secondary. They sang, they danced, and were by far my favorite part of the day (more about them later).

After the party had been officially started (every Tanzanian meeting and party has to be officially opened, like courtroom proceedings), it was time for introductions. There were perhaps a 1,000 people at the party, if not more. Well over a hundred were introduced by the Master of Ceremonies. It took some time. When you are introduced, you are expected to stand, wave, and say something followed by “Hoye!”, to which the crowd responds, “Hoye!”. For example you could say, “Muungano Hoye!” (Yeah Union Day!) and the crowd would respond, “Hoye!” (Yeah!) You could also go with “Tanzania Hoye!” (Yeah Tanzania!), “Elimu Hoye!” (Yeah Education!), or “Wafupi Hoye!” (Yeah Short People!). Any of those would get an enthusiastic “Hoye!” in response (the last one might not stir the hearts of the taller folk in the crowd, but give it a shot). Back to the introductions. After we had gone through each and every level of government (with me wondering all the things that this country would accomplish if it cut out one of the three or so levels of unnecessary bureaucracy), Kenzie and I were placing bets on whether or not we would get introduced. We clearly were not on the Emcee’s card, but we do, you know, stick out a bit. And sure enough, he was preparing to segue gracefully into the next part of the party...when someone tapped him on the shoulder and said something along the lines of “don’t forget the pasty ones”. At which point the Emcee launched into a bit about how this year they are rewriting the national constitution, and how there is no ubaguzi (racism), how nobody cares about color here, which was why he simply had to introduce the two volunteers here from America. Kenzie and I stood up, I gave a big “Muungano Hoye!”, and we sat back down, all the while me thinking one simple thought:

“What a crock.”

 I had actually decided a few days before the party to write a blog about some of the negative parts of my time here (the specific inciting incident will be explained shortly). I try and give a fairly accurate accounting of my time here, and it is mostly upbeat, because I mostly love my life here. If I had to make the choice over again, I’d do it all again with no reservations. This, for me (and for my villagers, I think), has been an unalloyed good. Yet some things still rankle. There are moments each day when I wish to be back in America. There is at least one time a month when I grow furious with someone or some situation, until I am mentally squashing them like tiny, squishy bugs. A lot of those situations come from an inescapable, infuriating reality of Tanzania: racism.

I don’t think I took too much for granted in America. I was always pretty damn grateful for being alive, healthy, shod and clod. But what I absolutely took for granted was living in a society that is heterogenous. I lived in Brooklyn, for goodness sake. They used to parade a statue of the Hispanic Virgin Mary by my window, right before they lit her on fire and cooked latkas picante (more of that is true than you might imagine). Black, brown, white, albino, Asian, you freaking name it, they were just other New Yorkers, other Americans. A bus fare was the same for me as for Yao Ming as for Samuel Jackson (not that I imagine either of them take the bus all that often). Not here. Here tomatoes cost more because I’m white. Bus fares cost more because I look different. Everywhere I walk (not in my village, but in any other town in the country), I am serenaded by choruses of “MZUNGU!!!” (Whitey!).Female volunteers are routinely asked to take young men back to America with them. We are assumed to be physically weak, ridiculously wealthy, and incredibly stupid, all at the same time. While Tanzanians are among the most welcoming people I have ever met or heard of, anywhere, there is a class of angry young men who blame many of the present-day difficulties (poverty, AIDS, etc.) on any and all white people. Which, on one hand, is understandable. Colonialism did Africa no favors, and centuries worth of harm. On the other hand, not only wasn’t I alive for that, but it wasn’t my country, and I came here to help. I try, I really do, to not let it bother me. But there’s only so many times you can be talked to like a stupid puppy before you start yelling. Which happens, from time to time.

So that is awful, and I hate it. Two points worth making for the other side: 1. It is a racial thing, but it is also a class thing. Rich Tanzanians are quoted higher prices than poorer ones. And conversely, poor rural Tanzanians are often treated like dirt by rich, urban ones. I have a much, much easier time getting a meeting at the District than anybody in my village. Tanzanian drivers will pick me up, give me free rides, but will pass by my village friends with nary a glance. So the racism goes both ways. Which leads me to 2. America doesn’t exactly have all its ducks in a row either. I don’t catch a ton of news, but I’ve heard plenty about Trayvon Martin. You cannot do the job I do and still think that one sort of people are innately better than another. We are different, yes. But it’s the height of arrogance to think that given the same opportunities that we have, these people would not do equally as well, or better.

Back to the party. After the introductions, my school’s children stepped forward. I love watching Tanzanian schoolkids perform. They do a high-pitched shout-singing that is really beautiful when done in unison. For this performance my kids danced with baton-like instruments, and they also had village-made kazoos (which made my heart glad). They sang about Union Day, about the leaders who had made it possible (Nyerere and Karume, of Tanganyika and Zanzibar, respectively). They broke it down with the traditional Hehe dance, the Dua. One of my favorite students, Ephus, ran around cheering and jumping, and everybody laughed. They absolutely killed it. The head honchos from the region loved it. Other students loved it. I loved it. I was so proud of those kids (it should be noted that I had nothing to do with it), of what they had done… and what they had endured.

On Monday I had gone down to the primary school to talk to the principal about a few things. He and I often do not see eye to eye, but we’ve managed to collaborate on a number of projects, and since I have a few more in the works, I had to go over them with him. After our meeting he mentioned that the students were preparing for the party on Thursday, and would I like to see? Of course, I said. Plus one of my teacher friends was running the rehearsal, and I had to see her about something anyway. So we went down to the soccer field, where the students were prepping, with batons and kazoos and drums and a pretty murderous noon-day sun. I grabbed a patch of grass and watched them work. From time to time my teacher friend would stop them and correct them, showing them the proper steps, yelling at the students who were doing the routine sans flair. I was happy: I was back at rehearsal. Then, during a quick stop, the principal called all of the boys off to the side, obviously unhappy with their lack of chutzpah. He said something to one of them, who ran over to where I was sitting. The child said, “Samahani” (excuse me), then reached down to where I was sitting. I moved aside, and he pulled up a long, thin stick that I hadn’t even realized I was sitting on. He ran back over to the principal, and gave it to him. At which point the principal proceeded to beat the living shit out of a bunch of 11-14 year old boys.

 This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this. Yet it is not something I’ve ever gotten used to, nor do I really want to. My friends who teach full-time in schools here see it every day, in varying degrees of brutality. I’ve seen teachers make a female student kneel and hold a large rock over her head until she was physically unable to continue. I’ve seen teachers make students roll up their trousers or skirts and kneel on gravel for as long as they deem necessary. This day with the principal was fairly typical: he had the boys get on all fours in a line. He started using the switch on their behinds. But something particularly angered him about one of my favorite students, Amos. So he started hitting him on the ribs, on the chest, until the child was lying flat on his back, crying, still being beaten.

What do you do? I know there are plenty of volunteers who see nothing wrong with raising a hand to your kid. That never happened to me, but I guess I get it. But this isn’t that. This goes way over the line of cruel, and it isn’t even effective. Tanzania’s educational scores are low, to put it kindly. The students don’t know any more after they’ve had the tar beat out of them than they did before. Yet this isn’t my place. I’m not here to impose American values on Tanzanian institutions. This man is my superior. So I sat there, digging my fingers into my ribs, not sure how I would ever look Amos in the eye again. He’s used to it, I supposed. I’m not. Hope I never will be.

One more, back to the party. I had to sneak out early. I’ve gotten good at that. I went to the bathroom, then went Viet Cong style through the woods to the road. It’s a cardinal sin to leave a Tanzanian party before eating. This, however, is not my first cardinal sin. I got to the road and started flagging down cars to get a ride back to the village (I had a date with my friend. We are doing Occupational Therapy house calls for old people, with Kelsey making scarily accurate diagnoses, and us relating her advice back to them). I got a ride from a couple of older, apparently Indian, men. They knew a little English. I asked them where they were headed. They named a city in the north of the country. I asked them where home was. They named the same city. It was then that I realized that these men, when they talked to each other, spoke Kiswahili. That they are, despite appearances, Tanzanians. There are a couple hundred thousand ethnic Indian and Arab Tanzanians. They’ve lived here all their lives. This is their home. They speak the language. And if I think that I sometimes feel like a stranger in my own house...I can’t imagine what their lives must be like. I do miss this part of America: the differences. The blend. The plurality. I'm sure something is lost when you start blending cultures together. But a lot is gained, I know that.

On to some happier thoughts at the end. We have winners! I refer you all to the photo album “The Unnamed” on my facebook profile. The naming rights for Cow #1 were purchased by Kelsey Drake for $200 (somebody should marry her). I have not yet been told its name. Cow #2 has been bought and named “Where’s Waldo” by Mr. Robert M Schwartz (take a bow). Cow #3 was purchased and christened “Leinad” (I like that my name is being incorporated multiple times) by Her Aussie Highness, Jeanne Fennell. And Cow #4 has been bought, paid for, and named “Rambo” by the distinguished John Arigot. Thank you all so much for playing along, and I can’t omba (request) enough times for those who didn’t win to still donate to the project. I am going out to Ruaha on Monday to finalize all reservations, and will provide a full budget/itinerary in a couple of weeks. This is going to be one hell of a trip, made possible by all of you. I can’t say enough times how wonderful you all are for making this possible. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Waldron, out.