Senses_7th May, 2007

Senses

I have never written a song, but I feel that one is being composed everyday here. It goes a little something like this: the tone is true and intense, the lyrics are powerful and the lows are deep. I sit back to take it all in. It is the kind of tune that somehow comes with reminiscent aromas. With every listen a smell follows. With every smell, a memory, or the sense of a new one being created. Nothing is ordinary about it. If anything goes unnoticed, it is only because the complexity is a bit overwhelming. If it weren't for the wicked dreams that this lullaby brings, I wouldn't want to sleep let alone, blink. The palette is bright and vibrant. The shapes before me are untouchable so I try to feel everything I can get my senses on...

Oh what a sight. Riding up the side of a mountain to find a waterfall. It seems the further I go the more lush the people become. The deeper I dig, the more precious the gems. Their colors are radiant. Brightly patterned conga cloth draped among clusters of coconut hips. They dance as they walk. I can almost hear hallow knocking among them. I see their fellowship. They are so closely knit that the lines between blood and neighbor are nearly invisible. The weave between them feels like a soft sheet of the finest, tightest interlace. The dirt under their nails turns to baby powder when they touch the sheet. The sweat that collects between breasts becomes cool water to take when they wake form feverish humid sleep. The mosquitoes turn to butterflies between the sheets. Malaria sap turns to nurturing milk when she wraps her sick baby. These heart-woven bonds are as abundant and important to survival as the bundle of plantain on their heads. It balances atop a worn cloth that hugs the head in a twisted bun shape. The stack often stretches the length of double-hips-width. They move in unison this way, never interrupting each other's dance. They sway like music as they carry dinner home. They prepare it on their front stoops. Each stoop serves about five families. Each home is one bedroom. One outhouse serves two of these buildings. The outhouses also serve as showers. Fetch water from well. Fill five-gallon bucket. Dump over body by the cupful while standing over hole in the ground. This is bucket wash. It is far more common than running water. When there is rain, all of the buckets in the house are placed outside to collect water. When there is no rain, the ground between the buildings and the outhouse serves as a sleeping area on coconut leaf rugs. Friends and strangers step between slumberers for a shortcut in their walk. The words between them are fast, firm, low and quiet. I wish I understood them better.

Sometimes the sound of their tongues reminds me of baseball on AM radio. I hear the buzzing, but can't make out most of what is said. I usually feel like this when I am sunburned, tired or sick. This is often. Yet, when I my mind is sharp, I can almost understand them through body language, expression and the limited vocabulary I have picked up. Sometimes I will chime in with a comment on the current topic and they always commend me for "really beginning to understand Swahili now." I think, I just enjoy reading people. The language itself sounds monotone and when the locals speak English it is colorful. They add an "ee" sound to the end of most words that don't need it when speaking. For example, "I am going to schoolie to learnie because artie is goodie." On the contrary, words that usually have the "ee" sound at the end they often drop. For example again, "your bod is sex." Their view on mzungu (white people) speaking is also quite interesting. Adding any expression, or highs and lows to your voice, indicates a mzungu accent. The locals mimic foreigners by making them all sound like valley girls. I have also learned that some of my students ask me "why" all of the time just to hear me screech "what do you mean why?!" I too am guilty of listening to them speak for my entertainment. Often the rhythmic bass of my students' banter puts me in a zone. I stare over my class, past the palm trees to the sea and daydream about returning to Tanzania. This will all soon be a memory.

Love comes with annoyances. Despite frustration, feelings grow stronger. The lump in your throat becomes bigger. You learn that you can tolerate extreme conditions and sometimes make excuses for your patience. I love eastern Africa. I have found true patience here. There is no ATM in Bagamoyo so I have been trying to exchange American Dollars at the local bank. There is one bank and every time I go, about twenty people waiting. I have yet to find the patience for that. Plan B: travel to Dar Es Salaam, the capital city. This involves a stuffy ride on the dala dala, a bus smaller than a full-sized van. On average, twenty-seven people ride in the humid box under the hot sun for about one dollar each way. I have put off this trip to get money for so long that I may have to borrow the fare. I am currently down to my last 2,000 Shillings which is around two dollars. The trip takes between two to three hours, depending on traffic. When I get to Dar, I hope to buy deoderant, jam, Johnson's baby powder and new underwear. At the moment I am feeling a bit trapped. I was broke and thirsty, so I drank local water. Now I am hoping I can stomach the whole ride to the city. I spoke to my mother Easter Sunday and my last sentence before I ran out of minutes was, "it is so wonderful here that it is worth every mosquito bite, every rat spotting, every sun-rash and every bout of diarrhea." Beep. Beep. Conversation ends. I have been emailing with the volunteer organization in order to extend my stay in Tanzania and cut back my trip to South Africa by one month. Everyone raves about how modern and westernized it is there. They assume I will love it. I disagree. I did not come here to experience western society. I am from western society, where life is mild.

Medium, middle and mediocre are not allowed here. Motion is slow through the weight of the hot sun or fast-forward when invited into someone's life. They feed me from their full plate of life and we share it all like a heap of ugali. Nothing is left unconsumed. I am learning that this eagerness to share is also an eagerness to get. They open fully to me because they think I can help. They assume my mzungu skin means money and knowledge to assist them in rising above. In my first week a student approached me for 200 shillings. This is less than twenty cents U.S. However, here, it can buy five cups of coffee from a street vendor or four cigarettes or a small joint or ten limes or two bananas or a wonderful breakfast of chai, beans, and chipate. The chai smells strongly of cardamom and is on every ones' lips every morning. With milk, is rare yet delicious, and tastes like a goat smells. It is thick and forms a film on the top before you drink it. With enough sugar in your tea, the film serves as a nice treat at the end of your cup. I prefer to drink it slow--to smell it longer. I taste all of the smells and smell all of the tastes.

Chipate is the local pancake/naan. It is flour and oil, kneaded, rolled out, rolled up, rolled out again, oiled, fried, flipped, oiled again, folded, oiled, flipped again, folded again and oiled one last time. Then it is thrown into a warmer, designed just for this flat bread, and can be found in almost every home. It is wonderfully bad for you and is standard breakfast for most people. Recently, I burned my fingers making chipatae, as all of the flipping and folding is done barehanded. Pili and I made about fifty of them along with enough rice pillau to fill a five-gallon bucket. We began the rice with ten onions, three heads of garlic one kilo of potato, cinnamon bark, cardamom seeds, chili powder, fennel and spicy curry sautéed in more oil. The uncooked rice soaked in water throughout the day while we chopped salad and fruit. By the time we put it over the fire, it only took thirty minutes to cook. The result was an aromatic mound, fit for a queen or a royal family with extended relatives. In addition, we introduced a western avocado dip, guacamole. What a pleasure to slice and smash such large, perfectly colored and ripened avocado. The softest of the bunch have rarely gone bad here.

Night fell and the tasting began. Fifteen students, three teachers, three toddlers and ten guests feasted on pineapple, banana watermelon, freshly sliced ginger, and cabbage salad to accompany the rice and bread. All of this cost the equivalent of eight dollars U.S. at the market. The plates sagged with weight and when our bellies bulged with weight the festivities began. The day after Easter is still considered holiday and we were enjoying it the right way. The neighbors stood on the second floor balcony to observe. The drummers set up on one side of the outdoor school and the fire dancers moved along the other. Within a half an hour each of them was glowing with moonshine over sweaty skin. They were glowing with energy and pride. My pride for them becomes more powerful everyday. I watch their talent and determination and try to image the life they once knew.

"Have you ever lived on the street?" one of them once asked me. It felt as though he was expecting me to say yes. I felt a bit ashamed of my fortune to answer with a "no." Street life is a way of life here. So common, it seems to be a passing into manhood. This doesn't make it any easier though. Boys leave home often because there is no room or money left to take care of them. The youngest come first, and so, the oldest (usually still just children) are left to fend for themselves. This is especially true if they have found their way into any trouble. So, they leave to find more trouble. Most cope with hunger through substance abuse. It is cheaper than food. Most feed their habits and sometimes their bellies through selling on the streets. In Bagamoyo, art is a way of life and so, many of them can survive making and selling crafts such as hats, jewelry or woodcarvings. If they are any good at it, they hopefully find their way to one of the art schools or artists' groups and away from the streets.

The students range from ages eighteen to twenty-eight. The oldest student speaks fluent English and has thus helped translate most of my lessons. He has also shared pieces of his transitional story with me. When he decided to cleanse himself from street life, he took on a job in construction and building conservation. This involved working with ruins and led to his interest and eventual volunteer work in archeology. Through this work he found passion and peace. He also found a place to live and the ability to quit all substance abuse. He will, very rarely now, have a drink or a smoke, but avoids them mostly so that he can set a good example for other street boys. As he sees it, if the boys see him living comfortably, but still doing these things, they will think it is okay and thus they may never find a way out. His talent in the arts is just as inspiring as his story and although still a student, he serves as a teacher and a role model for the younger students everyday.

At African Modern Arts Park and Training Center for Street Children (AMAP) I have been teaching drawing, painting and English. Saidi's runs the school out of the back of the building where his partner Pili houses her seamstress/clothing shop. The place triples as a home for them and their daughter as well as four other families. The goal of AMAP is to turn the current students into teachers for the younger generation. Eventually, they intend to take in street boys as young as seven-years-old and train them to become art teachers so that the center will be a self-sufficient cycle. Currently, Saidi and Pili have free access to a nearby house where five of the students are staying. These students would otherwise be homeless. In addition, AMAP supplies breakfast and lunch for most of the full-time students. Students often come on the weekends to work and get a meal. Their artwork is what keeps the center alive. It is sold to people passing by and thus the school makes enough money to feed the students and survive. The environment is an inspiring outdoor setting with a large sculpting area at ground level, next to three small display rooms for finished artwork, an upper level open classroom, a banda room, and a covered area for rainy days and cooking. All of this overlooks my favorite view of the Indian Ocean.

I watch my students as they sit on the floor of their outdoor classroom. They draw for hours on end everyday. Of course they get cranky. Of course this irritates me. But they still come in everyday for more. They still say to me everyday, when I am able to explain something coherently, "Ah! Thank you teacha!" They still sculpt everyday when I leave for lunch and every evening when class is over. They spend all of their freetime creating. They are talented and intense. By day, they study fine art and by night, most of them are polishing their dancing, drumming, and singing skills. My admiration for them is nearly unexplainable. They force me to understand the life I have had. While I drag them out to the hot sunny streets to render perspective on their paper, they are forcing my whole existence into perspective in my head. So, I am sitting dreaming about dark chocolate. What I wouldn't give, right? One of them asks me, "remember the air thingy you brought to the beachie fire? If you have more can you bring?" I finally figure out he is talking about a balloon. I promise to do my best. One of the volunteers gave me three, in rasta colors. The gift was taken with such grace and appreciation that I have forgotten about chocolate for a while. Instead, I recall one of my first days of class: A student was wearing a comfy-looking worn cotton shirt with a chicken on it, which read, "chicken shirt." I laughed and complimented him on it. He didn't seem to understand what was so funny. I soon realized that this was one of his two shirts. It has nothing to do with liking it or not. In their lack of choice and limited knowledge of the English language, some of them wear the funniest clothing. Another guy wears a shirt that reads "worlds best grandmother" and printed on the front is a photo of two mzungu children. On your typical westerner, this would be a sign of a good sense of humor. Here, I am not so sure.

Here, I am taking in a lot of rain, smoke, beans, bananas, body odor, wet laundry, and urine. Like I said, the tones are true. The toilets are squats. Wash where you wee but watch where you pee. My sandals scrape the sandy, wet concrete as I position perfectly over the hole. No matter how experienced you are in squatting, nothing prevents the marrying and splashing of piss. The door leans on just the lower hinge and the angle lets in some light. Only in the last few days did I become brave enough to follow with a bucket water wash. The bucket is usually blue or pink and a cup floats atop the water. Before I was worried about other peoples' grimey hands on the cup and in the water. Then, I got tired of drip-drying in this humidity every time I forgot my toilet paper. I have braved the bucket at school, only. I feel close enough with my students now, that I don't fear their germs like a strangers' germs. Many of my students shower next to the well at school. We are fortunate enough to have the local well in the middle of our courtyard. Neighbors are in and out constantly to get water. It is the source for most people on the block. We are also fortunate to have a toilet, squat or not. Other volunteers have been placed in schools with no toilet, yet are advised to drink 3-5 liters of water per day. I somehow feel lucky as I peer through the crack in the door, holding my breath, watching feet run past, down the hall and out to the street. I splash and follow.

Bikes pass with baskets full of produce on the back, leaving a trail of ripe pineapple aroma. Just below our street is the fishmarket at the beach. You can try to dream of the array of smells here, but its better if I tell you…salty fishermen with half-broken bodies fight each other everyday to win the bread but usually just end up eating fish. They smell like fish. Hardworking women with heavy, yet hardened bodies lean into the water to fetch the minnows that they make into a salty, fishy red sauce for ugali. Their fingers are just as hard as their hips. They have been cut and burned over and over. They too, smell like fish. Warm chipate steams from the stoves hidden in the corners of the market. The backs that curve over these pans are not slouching, but working. These women are also hard. Imagine how their fingers can compete. I imagine they smell of charcoal. I know they must taste like sugar. Just behind them, is a path where the fishmarket traffic jams. Extra-large catches, strung on rope, are carried to the large shelter where the deals are made. Stinky bodies shove and compete all day long. Their shouting wafts to our outdoor classroom along with all of these smells. It is a rich atmosphere to teach in.

Perhaps the most powerful smell in the world is that of fire. I would bet that there is not a single person who doesn't have a memory connected to its' aroma. My memories of camping in northern Illinois connect with this fire. "Beachie fire" accompanied by fire dancing, drumming, singing, chanting, chatting, swimming, stargazing and many other -ings. This is my memory of one of my first nights here. I was amazed by the authenticity of the performances. I could feel the foundation in tradition. I could imagine these men as children, with their grandfathers. I could feel the tribal marks on their faces. Some are burned with cashew nut shells on their cheek. Some are slashed under the eye. The scars are as thick as the blood that gave them their heritage. They are all of many different villages and various tribes. Yet, they have come together here, to create and live off of their artistic talent. For the first time, I now truly understand the meaning of Rastafarian. The smell of salt water and kerosene fire will always bring me back to this realization and the way that life here creeps slowly along "African time."

A good song awakens you regardless of the timing and to awaken is to open your senses. If there were an order to the senses perhaps they could be categorized clearly, but I prefer the messy goodness of combining. I prime my burnt skin with essential oils, add a layer of deet, a layer of sunscreen and then a layer of powder to fend of the humidity. I dip my bread in my coffee, peanut butter, honey, cinnamon, and all. I shower my students with hard-nosed lessons full of open venues, honest sadness at their laziness, and loud pride at their accomplishments. I have become an elaborate mess and I prefer it this way.