Nine Hours on the Sabbath

First, if you have been wondering what happened to my last post, about the request for assistance, send me an email at africanrob@gmail.com. The computer teacher and I created a separate site at which to host the request (I can't link to it here, hence the need for the email). Thanks for all of those who have shown interest in helping! Now for my nine hours on the Sabbath-

It started at his armpits. Two incongruous dark blotches in a field of pink, blotches we felt compelled to focus on as the preacher flailed his arms wildly while in the throes of his sermon. The church was crowded, standing-room only, amplifying the heat of the day. This heat was being slowly manifested as sweat blotches on the preacher’s pink shirt, blotch after blotch creeping into being as he continued to praise Jesus. By the end of his two-hour, arm-flailing sermon, his entire shirt had morphed into a different shade of pink- more of a slighly translucent purple- except for the collar and cuffs. It was a long day.

One of my favorite students invited me to go to his church last Saturday (he’s a Seventh Day Adventist) for a “day of guests.” He said he was the chairman of the event, and would be honored to bring me as his guest. Knowing the propensity of such religious days to literally take an entire day, I told him I’d go but had prior obligations in the afternoon hence would leave early. He seemed to accept that.

Saturday morning, I was showering with a cold bucket of water (I used cold to wake myself up; out of coffee that day) when he arrived to escort me into town, to the Adventist church. As soon as we’d reached the church, we were showered in warm welcomes and holy exultations: “praise the Lord, a white man has come!” We entered the already crowded church and searched for seats. Do you know that awkward feeling you get when you enter a theater, church, or classroom and the all the seating in the rear of the room is taken? You slowly proceed down the aisle, hoping to find an empty spot, gradually being drawn closer and closer to the front. Eyes begin to follow you, you feel them on you (especially if you are the only white person in the room), and yet you have to continue onward, forward, hoping in vain for that elusive open seat. I finally found an opportunity to sit at the very front of the room, next to the leaders of the congregation and the preachers; I felt out of place. During my ambling trek to the front, every single member and guest in that church had noticed me, evidenced by the constant whispering “mzungu...!”

Within five minutes of my arrival, the man at the pulpit made this announcement, in English: “…and if there is anyone, anyone at all in the crowd who does not understand Kiswahili, let him raise his hand now so that we can find a way to help him understand.” Like a wave, face after face turned to look at me, until once again the weight of those stares made me wish I had stayed home to watch “Pitch Black” again. I wanted to laugh, but felt too uncomfortable. The silence rang while the church waited for me to raise my hand and admit that, as a white person, I don’t know Kiswahili. Well, after fifteen seconds of my sitting like an inert lump, they decided I must not know English either, and just continued on in Kiswahili. This same language question was repeated at least three times by different people, each time causing a pause during which I was closely scrutinized. Finally, my student stood up and introduced me: “This is Mwalimu Masanja from Ihungo Sec., and he knows Kiswahili.” From that point on, I was no longer an issue.

The preacher in pink climbed the pulpit at around 11am, after I’d been sitting in the church for two hours, feeling it become hotter as the day progressed. During the course of his sermon, he flat out insulted Americans no less that three times (comparing us to Babylon, usually) and got so frenzied and sweaty due to the message he was delivering that I thought he would pass out from either divine rapture or dehydration, take your pick. If you remember a post from a long time ago, this isn’t the first time I’ve been in a church here in Tanzania. It’s the second time. When I went to church with Mama Mipawa a year and a half ago, I was in agony, just sitting and waiting for the service to conclude. I didn’t understand anything that was being said, and my little sister was having bladder issues. The contrast between that time and now was fodder for my reflections throughout the day. This time, I could understand the preacher when he said that “all Americans are evil sinners” in Kiswahili. Trust me, being able to comprehend his words made my day far more entertaining that it would have been otherwise.

After Mr. Pink (“Why do I have to be Mr. Pink? Why can’t I choose my color?” “Because if we chose colors there would be five Mr. Blacks.”) finished his diatribe against sinners and America, we broke for lunch. For some reason, after I’d sat with the big potatoes of the church for four hours, they decided that I was also a big potato. That meant that, while all the other guests had to go stand in line for half an hour to get their food, I just sat and gossiped with these old fellas while the church youth served us. Again, I felt awkward. Plus, everyone was eating with their hands. Have you ever tried eating beans, rice, and avocado with your hands? Try it, I challenge you. It wouldn’t have been so ridiculous if all my students hadn’t been there, watching me try to eat. In any case, eventually my food made it where it was supposed to go and the day’s festivities continued.

At this point, I went up to the student who invited me and politely told him that I’d had enough for one day. The look on his face was so devastating that I decided to stay for the second half, just to prevent having that sad face haunt me later. Having appeased him that I wouldn’t be leaving, he went and took his place on a stage which had been constructed outside the church. It seems that when he said “chairman” he meant “MC”, because for the next five hours he was on the mic, making jokes and introducing speakers. I think he was really proud to have that responsibility, and he wanted me to see him at his finest.

The highlights of those five hours were few, and I gradually retreated from the world until I was a thoughtless mass of Rob, just taking up space. I got a phone call from my mom at some point, and I was so removed from activity that I probably said a total on ten words while we talked. However, there were a number of choirs whose music was a delight, and my students performed some “educational skits” which I didn’t really understand but everyone around me was laughing pretty hard. A hapless HIV/AIDS lecturer came and gave us a lesson in which she referred to HIV as a “virus that is a bacteria” and referred to one of my twenty year-old students as “that old man over there.”

Eventually, Mr. Pink got back on stage and delivered another America-bashing sermon. This time, the literal translation of one of his quips goes: “…and Americans, they’re cowards. If I say the words ‘Al-Qaeda,’ ‘Muslim,’ ‘Bin Ladin,’ or ‘Afghanistan,’ all they can do is shiver in fear.” A point worth noting is that this had nothing to do with anything else in his sermon, he just wanted to sound tough and draw in the crowd. I was so overcome with ennui at this point, to entertain myself I decided to go confront this guy. (If you are wondering why he kept making these remarks while an American was in his audience, you should know that it’s because he assumed that I’m German). Of course, he tried to say that I was taking the meaning wrong, taking his words out of context. He had a large number of poor arguments, and I didn’t take to any of them. Finally, he admitted that he could’ve said things differently. I took that to be as much of a victory as I would get, and left him alone.

All in all, when the day ended, I’d spent over nine hours at this church. That is a long time. But it was worth it- I could see in my student’s eyes the joy he had not only in the fact that I’d come, but that I’d stayed.

About face in this place

When I first arrived here, my head was full of anticipation of what I would find, how I would change my behavior patterns to adapt to those things, and how I would ultimately undergo changes myself. In my head, the aphorism “life is what you make of it” resounded. I sincerely believed that, with the right attitude, it is possible for a person to transform any situation, no matter how alien or discomfiting, into both an enjoyable and educational experience. True enough, within my own group of trainees I witnessed examples of this idea’s veracity on both ends of the spectrum- those volunteers who managed to maintain an optimistic and gregarious manner kept themselves in pleasant circumstances; those who continually found fault with their surroundings sooner or later also found their early tickets home.

After some sixteen months here at Ihungo, I took a step back to reevaluate my own situation. Sadly, I came to realize that my initial beliefs were not quite accurate; once again, theory and practice were disparate. What prompted my reflections was my increasingly common habit of daydreaming about returning home, which led to me counting the time, the months, weeks, and days I have remaining. At some point, I realized that this desire must be due to me feeling incongruous with my environment, feeling like the odd man out and wanting to get back to a life where I could blend in again. But why should I have felt this way? I’d spent almost a year and a half with my neighbors, students, and fellow teachers, but the bonds one tends to share with such people were strangely missing. I came with high hopes, trying to make my situation as positive as I could. Somewhere along the line, I’d lost track. In honesty, I had only one or two people, outside of my fellow volunteers, that I could confide in and share my experiences with. On the phone with Kit one day, I told her I’d decided this isn’t how it has to be, and this isn’t how I want to leave Tanzania in seven months. Briefly, you could say the result of my appraisal is that I’ve gotten a second wind, and I’m trying to re-integrate with all those people I’ve taken for granted since my arrival.

The first, largest, and most obvious step was to reconnect with the faculty and staff of Ihungo. In retrospect, I believe that I’d written most of them off due to two factors- generally poor work ethic and a willingness (perhaps even an eagerness) to inflict corporal punishment. As hard as it is to admit culture differences sometimes, I now can admit that my judgments against those teachers were premature and perhaps unfair. I still disagree with both practices, but my differing opinions don’t make me an authority. So I opened myself back up to my coworkers, spending more time with them in the staff room and at their homes. In the last few months, we’ve established a stronger rapport than we’d had over the entire past year. The most significant action I’ve enjoined is weekly visits to my headmaster’s house, where he and I discuss the school, life, and whatever comes to mind for several hours while he plies me with beer. Each visit culminates with a feast of Haya foods that Mama George (the headmaster’s wife) always apologizes for despite its magnitude. I can’t seem to convince her that my bachelor cooking holds no candle to what she serves. Maybe if I invite them to sample my typical dinner, she’ll get the point.

The major change that I’ve noticed is that I am slowly becoming a more respected voice on campus, both by teachers and by students. When I ventured an opinion in a staff meeting last year, my “crazy white man” ideas tended to be dismissed. The other day we held a computer board meeting which they’d asked me to audit, despite my status as a non-member. When I informed them early on in the meeting that I had to leave and attend a prior engagement, they made a flattering ado, complaining that with my departure no more good ideas would be presented. It was a validating moment, helping me to see that I am becoming valued here. The difference an open mind and some effort can make...

Last weekend was the first time in months where my schedule was full with activities outside my home. Friday night, I was invited to a birthday party for the girlfriend of a local businessman. I enjoyed myself a little more than was warranted, as his business happens to be with the Tanzanian Distilleries Corporation and his stock of liquor was mind-boggling. By the time the party got underway, I’d had a few and they decided that I should be the MC for the night. Without any specific details, it was ridiculous. The next day, a fellow teacher had invited me to attend a ceremony in the village in which a husband-to-be presents his fiancée’s family with their bride price. Those of us teachers who went were in effect the fiancé’s support contingent and I’m pretty sure I was invited to be a status symbol for him. “Look, we are totally serious about this guy marrying your daughter. We even brought a white guy to prove it. Look, there he is. He’s pretty white, huh?” The ceremony was the most traditional event I’ve had the opportunity to attend here, rigid formality held sway throughout the duration. I caused a titter when it was the men’s turn to thank the bride-to-be’s family, and I properly followed suit by getting on my knees and saying a florid Kihaya “thank you” to each person in the room. Actually, the laughs were probably because I messed up somehow, but I felt proud to take part regardless. My favorite part of the day was the bus ride to and from the village, during which all the women on the bus sang beautiful traditional harmonies for two hours each way. Gazing out the window at the gorgeous scenery to the cadence of these melodic songs was a fine way to spend a Saturday. Sunday, I received a visitor who I’ve run into so many times in town, it was becoming embarrassing. It was akin to the office coworker you see in the hallway everyday, always giving the head nod and a “hey,” feeling awkward each time. She had attended her secondary school studies in England, so we had an easy conversation about relative differences and such. The bonus was that she had also been a pupil of my neighbors, so we had a chance to give them a surprise visit and socialize for awhile. It was only the second time I’d set foot inside their house, and they gave me a good-natured drubbing (yeah, I said it) about only coming over when escorting other guests. Guess they had a point, and I’ll try to remedy that.

Rereading that last paragraph, I feel like I’ve missed the point a bit. I’ll leave it as it stands, but I was more trying to explain the difference that my attempts at becoming involved have made. In the past, I would have entire months without so much as visiting a single person at Ihungo, and entire weeks where I would avoid the office. (No, I wouldn’t shirk work, I’d just go directly from home to class and then back). I can see with the effort that I am putting forth, my views are beginning to change once again. Hopefully now, I won’t have to leave Tanzania with any regrets or a bad taste in my mouth.

Bonus Bonus Bonus: If anyone is interested in having a Tanzanian pen-pal, there is a form four student who has been bugging me for the last few months about wanting an "American friend to write with." Her name is Henrietta Henry (her dad's name is Henry, and since he had a daughter and couldn't name her Henry as well, he went with the next best thing, Henrietta) and she's an intelligent, devoted student. If you wanna help out and make a friend, toss me an email. No Shawn Safavis need apply.