Mamas, Full Moons, and a Day in My Life

Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before. How infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way. And that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.

Meanwhile, she smoked. She remembered it was August and they say August brings bad luck. But September would arrive one day like an exit. And September was for some reason a lighter and more transparent run.

Clarice Lispector

I roll over and look at the silvery light coming in through my window, casting itself in shadows on my mosquito net. I look at my watch and it reads 5:20am. I have slept through the night; I hadn’t woken once. My arms, covered in the imprint of blankets and my eyes still adjusting to the world around me. Sleep is a strange, mystical and unchartered world. Every night I dream in this wild mixture of English and Kiswahili, of America and Tanzania, of who I was and who I am. I dream of people I haven’t seen or spoken to in a decade. The fact alone that I have come to a point in my life where I have known people for longer than a decade makes my already tired joints hurt just a little bit more from the uncertain wisdom of growing, physically, emotionally. I look at myself in the tiny sliver of mirror I have hanging on my wall. I take note of the white hairs, which are either new or perhaps no longer shrouded by long hair. I feel the soreness in my muscles and run my hand through my short, but growing hair and feel quite at home in this body, in this moment. Everything is absolutely essential here. My body is stronger than it’s ever been. More in tune. Perhaps due to its proximity to the Earth, I feel myself connected to something far beyond my ability to grasp.

I set out to walk along the hills of my village. With each new turn, appears another new path, a shortcut, an unknown destination. Sometimes I take these paths and wind up turning around, and other times I choose a new path, and find myself, staring, awe-struck, as the landscape unfolds in front of my eyes. And this is one such morning. I walk uphill on a tiny path, winding itself around the rim of this mountains edge. From this vantage point I can see my entire village in the valley below, the hospital, the dukas, the mgahawas, the houses where my mamas are surely cooking and doing the days chores, my babas heading out to the farm. I continue walking, the morning sun beginning to beat ferociously onto the nap of my neck. And suddenly I am standing in front of a massive water catchment tank, probably thirty feet across. I stand, stunned, to see such a thing on the top of this little mountain. I walk around it, and surmise that perhaps this was the water storage for the hospital down below. The sound of water dripping slowly from the pipes, and the sky reflecting crystalline in the still water. I continue on.

As I wind my way around the corner, I find myself walking towards a little bibi – old lady – sitting and peeling cassava. She is humming as I walk towards her and her face lights up when she notices me. I greet her, and she, in classic Tanzanian fashion, invites me to sit. I think perhaps Tanzanians, or at least those in my village, assume I am constantly tired. My daily refrain of nimechoka – I am tired – certainly not helping matters and they are relentlessly providing me a chair or stool to sit on. And so, I sit. Midway through my morning hike I find myself sitting under a mulberry tree chatting with this bibi, as the children gather mulberries for me. The air is filled with the sweet smell of burning firewood, as the mama is inside preparing chai. And I have another moment of arrival. When did this become my life? I listen to this old Tanzanian woman, and I understand everything she is telling me. And I am laughing. And I am eating mulberries, which are so tart and sweet, my mouth desperately missing the familiarity of berries. The purple juice bleeding into the skin of my palm. My heart beat slows as I arrive here, again, back in my body.

I continue on and discover many new paths and twists and turns. Eventually finding myself in kivukoni, in desperate need of chapati. As I walked towards the mgahawa – think Tanzanian version of a café – I see John. John is one of many boda boda – motorcycle – drivers in Mvaa. Piki piki is to boda boda, as car is to taxi. And boda bodas are a huge business here in Tanzania, being one of the primary modes of transportation. I walk towards John and we greet each other. He is holding onto my hand, playing with my bracelet in a way that feels quite intimate. I pull it away, smiling. This strange new awareness I have of being touched by a man in public is complicated. I wonder at times where the line is between cross-cultural education and respecting cultural norms. Between having seemingly innocent flirtatious fun and being cautiously aware of my safety. I have no answers. Some days the gender norms are laughable, and sometimes they are exhausting. Most of the time they are both. John gives me mia tano – five hundred shillings – and I ask him if he wants a chapati also. He smiles and tells me he wants to buy my chapati for me. This is how people flirt here, or something, I’m not quite sure. But we laugh and I toss the mia tano back to him. Naweza kulipa mwenyewe – I can pay for myself.

In the afternoon I find myself walking to kivukoni again to have lunch with two little girls, Susie and Dori. Dori is the little girl I was with, listening to Van Morrison, the first time I saw an elephant all those months ago. She is a little lightning bolt of a girl, and I am mesmerized by her energy. I arrive and am handed Imma, the five-month-old baby, and Dori and Susie run to me. They hug me, stroke my hair, and giggle. The little boys are jumping on the couch yelling dada – sister. As we eat rice, beans, and perfectly sweet bananas, Dori asks me if I want to go to Giriama. I have no idea what Giriama is, and I ask her to explain. Dori’s mama explains something at length; and thus, with my moderate understanding of what she has just said and my pretty decent logical ability I agree. And like many moments in my life here, I have no real idea what I am agreeing to. And so, I am not at all surprised when, after we finish lunch, Dori says twende – let’s go – and we are off to Giriama. We arrive to visit Dori’s bibi – grandmother – and of course she is a woman I have met a number of times before. In fact, she is the bibi who was with Dori the first time I met her. She is the bibi that, all those months ago, arrived in Giriarma after dark and trusted me to continue on with Dori to bring her to Mvaa. The bibi who trust me – random white lady – with the care of her granddaughter. And why not? After all, it takes a village, literally.

Dori, Susie and I have a dance party. I am still holding the little baby. We are listening to bongo flava – the most popular Tanzanian music genre. We drink chai and eat fresh oranges. I wonder what exactly I’ve agreed to. When, if, we will ever return to kivukoni. I feel tired and energized all at once. I walk around the yard barefoot, holding this baby, a kitenge wrapped around my waist and I feel quite like a mama wa Tanzania. I feel the heat in the hardpan Earth, and the leaves between my toes. Imma wiggles in my arms and grabs hold of my mala beads. I am standing on the edge of this yard, looking over the savanna below. Perhaps I can see until Kenya, but I’m not quite sure. And Dori and Susie are dancing and giggling back in the house. The smell of ugali and vegetables flowing from the jikoni, where the bibi and mamas are preparing dinner. They are talking quickly in Kipare, the tribal language, and I cannot understand anything they are saying, but they are certainly telling the types of secrets and stories that women tell when they are together; surrounded by smoke, babies, food, and the day’s work. The types of stories that arise when your bare feet are planted sturdy in the soil.