To Waste or Waste Not

As I prepare to welcome the C&S7 (even shorter now), I am feeling very conscious of the fact that I will be the "expert" on the scene.  I am pretty comfortable with the role.  I mean, I've spent months here over the years, and I've been very inquisitive during those visits, in anticipation of being able to gently guide newcomers through this chaotic world.  I can fill out customs forms in my sleep.  I don't even flinch when a matatu is driving directly at me on the wrong side of the road.  I know the names of all the foods.  I don't get excited when I see Maasai herders driving their goats through town.*

I can handle myself.

Which means it's time for an ego check.  I got one at dinner this evening.  I was raised in a house where you don't get down from the dinner table until your plate is empty.  "Make it zero!" is a common expression at the family table.  And I have carried that with me to this day (occasionally at my waistline's expense).  It grates on me to leave food on my plate.  It seems wasteful, and I don't want to be a wasteful person.  I make an effort not to take more than I want (or more than I should have), and I almost always lick my plate clean.

I did this tonight (because the food here is flipping delicious!), crossed my fork and knife on my plate, and leaned back in my chair.  "You know, Jo, in Africa, when you eat everything on your plate, it means that you didn't get enough to eat," said my friend Fr. Felix.  I apologized and explained that it is difficult for me to stop eating delicious things, so I just keep eating until they're gone.  "But Jo," he countered, "you are in Africa, and it is our custom to always leave something on your plate if you are satisfied."  Well, I certainly am not one to flout the culture of a place I am visiting, and I am an eager student.  But still... it's so wasteful!  "Jo, nothing here is wasted.  Don't you care if the pigs get anything to eat?  If you eat all of your food, what are the pigs going to eat?"  Fair point, Fr. Felix.

I went up and got just a little bit more food in order to not finish it.  I am so African.

*Just kidding- that is totally always exciting, 100% of the time.

Leapin' Gizzards!

I pride myself on being able to roll with whatever comes up during my travels. My hosts are frequently surprised by my willingness to dive into East African culture. I don’t ask for or expect any special treatment just because I am a guest, and I think they like that. I will eat just about everything put in front of me, no matter how outrageous it might seem to my American sensibilities. I mean I ate grasshoppers for crying out loud! One of my biggest fears is that I inadvertently offend my hosts, which galvanizes me into even higher levels of cultural immersion.

But there is one food I just can’t bring myself to eat, no matter how much I psych myself up for it.

Chicken gizzard.

Now, I know what you must be thinking. “Jo, what an absurdly specific thing! It can’t possibly come up that often that you need to refuse it! Why make such a big deal over a gizzard?”

Here, chicken gizzards are considered a delicacy. When chicken is served, the gizzard is always in the pot, because it proves to those eating that this was a whole chicken before it was cooked. Traditionally, the gizzard is always offered first to the guest of honor, and it humbles me to say that I am almost always the guest of honor. Such is the nature of East African hospitality that the gizzard is usually on my plate before I even have a chance to stammer a polite refusal. I have found that I can usually get out of eating it by insisting that someone else eat it on my behalf. Everyone is always eager to do so because these guys love them some gizzards. Occasionally, I have even seen the priests jokingly argue over who should get to eat it, but in that “I’m-only-pretend-joking-about-this-because-it-would-be-rude-to-outright-demand-it-but-I-actually-really-want-it” kind of way.

Truthfully, I don’t really care who eats it, as long as it’s not me.

Mob Justice

There I was, standing in the shade of an obliging billboard, taking in my surroundings. I had finally arrive in Uganda. The border at Mutukula is a chaotic mess compared to the immigration offices at Namanga in Kenya or Sirari in Tanzania, but the officials were quick and efficient and I had my first Ugandan stamp in next to no time. However, it was another hour and a half before the car cleared customs. No matter which border we are crossing, this is always the thing that takes the longest; border crossing is much quicker when you travel by public transport. Anyway, I was trying to memorize everything about my first moments in Uganda when I saw a crowd of people walking down the center of the road in an angry knot. Front and center, there was a youngish man, trying in vain to ward off the blows he was receiving from those that surrounded him. The crowd was shouting angrily, but he wasn’t saying a word. They continued down the road, passing directly in front of us. One man had a cane that he kept raising threateningly above is head, and I was grateful that I didn’t see him bring it down on the young man’s head. I asked Fr. John what was going on. “Mob justice,” he said. Apparently, the young man had stolen some clothes and, in the absence of the police, all of the witnesses took it upon themselves to intervene. Since we were so close to the border, the group was probably marching their prisoner to the police stationed there. Fr. John told me that it was very common for a mob like this to put a transgressor to death for the offense of stealing. Horrified, I listened to his description of corporal punishment: the mob would put a rubber tire around the transgressor’s neck, douse him in petrol, and light him on fire. I am still thanking God that I didn’t witness something like that. I don’t think I would ever sleep again. The police in Uganda are doing their best to eradicate mob justice, but it is difficult for them to be everywhere at once. It is a dangerous system and excellent motivation to live life to the letter of the law.

He Said He Needs to Tell You Something...

Just a brief post-logue on the many uses of Kamwani:

There is another much more specific ritual using Kamwani that I heard about. When someone is a very close family friend and you want to truly invite them into your family (Fr. Kamanzi used the example of my sister Stephanie becoming a part of my family), there is a process that cannot be refuted among the Kihaya people. First, the family-person breaks the Kamwani, removes the two kernels, and gives one to the friend. Both parties cut their navels, mix a little bit of blood with the kernel, and exchange them to be consumed, so that each person is consuming the other’s blood. After this blood pact, the friend is now family. They have next-of-kin rights and can even inherit property.

I think I can speak for the whole Pressimone family when I say that, Stephy, this is not necessary.

A Whiter Shade of Pale

“Jo, I know that you don’t get frightened, but I don’t want this to frighten you.”

When Father Kamanzi begins a story that way, I know I am in for a doozy.

Our first day of traveling from Nairobi brought us to Sirari, just on the Tanzania side of the border. The Apostles of Jesus have a parish here, St. Michael’s. This entire area, all the way to our destination in Bukoba on the west shore of Lake Victoria, is very rich in gold. Commercial miners from all over the first world come here to remove the precious metal, but it is so abundant that even locals and amateurs can successfully dig for gold, if they have enough luck.

Sadly, many locals think they have found a way to augment their luck in the most horrible possible way.

It is believed that if you take a body part of an albino person into the mine with you, you will find more gold. This has resulted in the hunting and killing of albino people throughout Tanzania.

I heard the story of a man in Kenya who befriended an albino man. After getting to know him, he said, “Hey, I know you are having a hard time finding work. I have some friends in Tanzania who will gladly hire you and pay you well!” The albino man eagerly accepted his friend’s offer, and when he got to Tanzania, was sold, by his “friend”, to Albino Dealers. From what I understand, the Kenyan man got millions of shillings for him.

Even today, people with Albinism are being hunted and killed Albino children must be escorted to school, and any albino person is in danger as soon as they come to this region. The government is trying to squelch the practice, but it is a difficult battle, not unlike trying to curtail drug trafficking or a vast prostitution ring.

And, of course, it’s all horseshit. The local and amateur miners are still among the poorest people. They are killing these poor people for nothing- they have no better chance at striking it rich than anyone else.

I had never heard of this situation at all, but at Fr. Kamanzi’s encouraging, I Googled “Albino trade in Tanzania.” I highly recommend that you do the same. The practice extends beyond the mining industry. At 150,000, Tanzania has the largest population of people with Albinism in Africa. There are a bunch of articles from the past couple of years that are definitely worth checking out.

Pets

Last night, I dreamt that my cat, Fagan, died. He had gotten some kind of wound on his neck, and by the time I got him to the KSPCA (Kenyan Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) on Langata Road here in Karen, he was already cold and stiff. There was nothing to be done for him. I very calmly excused myself, and blogged that I was “deep in sorrow”.

Of course, when I woke up, I knew instantly that it had only been a dream. Fagan is much bigger than the cat in the dream, and he is nowhere near the KSPCA. Why my subconscious felt the need to blog about it I’ll never know.

During breakfast this morning, Fr. John asked if I had any dreams during my sleep. My family will tell you that I always have extremely vivid dreams, and I am always eagerly relating them. So I launched into this story about my poor beloved Fagan’s untimely end. By the time I finished, Fr. John was staring at me with the now-familiar look of absolute confusion. “Jo, I do not want to be rude, but that just makes no sense to me. Why do you have a pet cat?”

Ah, yes. Pets, at least the way we Americans think of them, do not exist in East African culture. Yesterday, when Fr. John was showing me where the guard dogs live, I told him about my own dogs, two German Short-Haired Pointers called Pip and Magwitch. When I told him that they live in the house, his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. He told me that sometimes, the white people who live in the area will allow their dogs to ride in the car with them, the thought of which had him shaking his head in disbelief. When showing me the rabbit hutches, he grabbed one by the ear and held it out for me to inspect. I quickly cradled its hind legs with one hand, while gently petting his middle with the other. Fr. John had never seen someone handle a rabbit with such care! When he pointed out the KSPCA from the Matatu, he was quick to say that *this* was not started by Africans.

I can understand his incredulity at our adulation of animals. How can people concern themselves with the welfare of animals when the welfare of humans is at risk all around them? The animals here have their purposes: protection, pest-control, food, income.

But all the same, I am glad that my Fagan is safe and sound back home.

(… he is, right? This wasn’t a malaria-medicine-induced premonition, was it? WAS IT?!?)