Locks of Lunacy

(written November 25^th)

I have never in my entire life had even the slightest inkling of a desire to put little tiny corn-row-like braids in my hair. Frankly, I think they look great on dark skin and dark hair, but for white people, they just look ridiculous. I remember back in school, friends would return from trips to the Dominican Republic or Florida with a hair-do that just begged the question “Oh! Where did you GO?! You look so TROPICAL!”, and of course I would ask the question and pretend to be impressed, but really I was just internally laughing at the person’s choice to look like a fool. Even when I went to Belize during my senior year of college and I egged on some friends to get the hair-do, I was secretly thinking “Thank GOD it’s not me in that chair.” Your scalp turns bright red with sunburn, the hair gets frizzy within days, and I’m sorry, but most white people were just not meant for that kind of look. There are some exceptions, but I am not one of them. I can’t rock it.

I feel like I need to give you a good explanation, then, as to why I am typing this as my head is pounding with a throbbing, freshly braided style. My first justification: this was not my choice. My second justification: I only got about six braids done, not the whole head. The rest of my hair is carefully pinned into a Marge-Simpson-meets-honey-comb hybrid of a monster. Like I said, this wasn’t my choice. But I guess I should start at the beginning.

About three months ago, I joined a parish choir at our nearby church. Some volunteers have done it in the past, I love singing, and I figured it would be good for me to get a regular hobby here. The choir meets anywhere between 3-7 times a week depending on upcoming concerts or competitions or whatever, we sing at mass almost every Sunday, and everything is completely in Kiswahili. Choir has been keeping me BUSY, to say the least, but I love every minute of it. At first, I was just a novelty, the Mzungu trying to fit in with the big guys. I had no idea what was going on, couldn’t pick out the words to rapidly write down for the life of me, and I basically just listened to everyone else sing with a dumbfounded look on my face for the entire first few weeks. But then things started to click. Choir members started to call me “Dada Beti” instead of “Mzungu”, and I started to learn some of their names. I still don’t know the meaning of most of the words I’m singing, but I recognize a lot of the themes and words now, so it’s a much easier for me to pick up a song and memorize the words after a few rounds of singing it. I sang at three weddings and was invited to two wedding receptions because of the friendships I made in the choir. And, tomorrow, I will be singing at the annual KWAYA TAMASHA (choir concert/competition), which is something that I DID NOT expect to be ready for.

I didn’t think much of this competition at the beginning. Back in October, I just remember hearing about  a far off “keep in mind” date at the end of November, and I thought, great, count me in. But then I started noticing the hair. It began about a week ago, when Dada Rehema, a young woman who sings alto (sauti ya pili) with me, came to rehearsal with a scarf wrapped around her head. Women wrap their hair in scarves all the time, but the funny thing was that her head had grown about three sizes. When I asked what was under there, she removed the scarf to reveal a complex network of fake hair, bobby pins, and scalp-wrenching braids in the shape of a giant globe. I was awestruck. I thought she had just gone crazy with her choice of style. But then the fire spread. Each rehearsal, one or two more women would come to practice with the melon-scarf look… and I knew.  I was next. Women started coming up to me and touching my hair with concerned looks, consulting each other in too-quick-to-understand Kiswahili about what to do with my head. Finally, on Friday, Dada Mbiki, a sassy lady who usually sits next to me and laughs lovingly (I think?) at my failure to pronounce certain words correctly, told me to meet her the following morning, EARLY, to take care of business.

So, this morning, I woke up early, brushed my greasy hair, and walked the 15 minutes to Dada Mbiki’s house. On the way I passed a few other members of choir, and when I told them I was going to “suka” my hair (Swahili for “braid”), they cheered me on in encouragement (and also laughed, which I’m assuming meant they thought the idea was as ridiculous as I did). Mbiki slapped me on the back when she saw me, scolded me when she found out I forgot to buy my own bobby pins, and marched with me about 20 minutes in and out of neighborhoods that I had never seen before, periodically hawking impressive morning spit-balls. We met up with Priska, another choir member who is equally as feisty, and the three of us arrived at a small house with a number of families living in it. An older woman brought out a straw matt, told me to sit down on the ground, and the adventure began.

I am so thankful that I only had to sit through about 6 excruciating braids. I’ve always had pride in my level of pain tolerance. Shots don’t faze me, and the processes of getting a tattoo and a pierced nose and eyebrow back in college were relaxing. Braids? Hell no. It felt like my brain was being slowly sliced out of my head with white-hot razors. It was all I could do to hold it together in front of all these ladies, who have to sit through this torture almost weekly. I managed to keep a mild manner, and after about 45 minutes of suka-ing, I sat for another 2 hours while my hair was twisted into little circles and a literal cage was built on the top of my head. All the while, children and women and men selling fish were walking by and gawking at this crazy white girl getting a crazy African hairstyle. When all was said and done, Dada Mbiki walked me home like a proud parent, after taking off her scarf so that it was clear to strangers that we had the exact same hairstyle. It is a give-in that any time I walk or go anywhere, children or adults will point and yell “MZUNGU!” at me. Well, today on that walk home with Mbiki, a child pointed at me and yelled “ALBINO!”. I wasn’t really sure how to react, so I didn’t, but I looked THAT African.

I still don’t quite understand why every woman in my choir is doing this to her hair. I still think I look like a bit of an alien. But today, I couldn’t help but think how awesome it is to feel like part of a group here. I am still the odd Mzungu out, and choir members still refuse to address me by my name from time to time, but I’m a part of it.

The concepts of “belonging” and “accompaniment” have been toying with my mind recently… what do these things really have to do with social justice? I’m not really DOING anything. I’m not teaching kids on the side of the road how to speak English. I’m not volunteering my free time looking into the NGOs that exist in Dar es Salaam, I’m not researching statistics that would broaden my understanding of economic growth patterns, or figuring out the relationship between education and infrastructure. I’m not off “saving the world”. But is that my job? Do I even have a right to do that? I don’t view my community as a struggling, hopeless third-world area full of people who need our help. It’s just home. All I know is that I never understood the care, work, or hours that go into hair-styling here. I sat through ONE grueling style session, and while I don’t think I will ever do that again, I understand a little bit more. And for now, I think that’s what I’ve got to keep trying to do. 

Semi-close up of the Simpson Globe

Dance-walking up to the stage with Kwaya

The "melon scarf" look

Learning

(written on November 16^th)

Today it is Friday. It is 8:35 in the morning. On any other Friday, I would be at school teaching religion to Standard 5, but today, I’m home sick for the second day in a row.  Malaria and amoeba double-smack. But I’ll get to that later. With all of this extra bed-rest time, I decided to go through my ancient “My Documents” folder on my computer, just to see if I could clean some things out, and it turned into a marathon of me reading old college papers and biology lab write-ups. I don’t know what happened between then and now, but I can’t understand a WORD of what I wrote. In an eleven page paper arguing the holes in the philosopher Kant’s rationalizations of Happiness and Respect, I used the phrase “qua rational beings” instead of “as rational beings”, in addition to a few dozen words that I obviously looked up in a thesaurus during the writing process to make myself sound more intelligent when I didn’t actually understand their meanings. QUA rational beings?! Talk about being a snobby college student. After reading my argument, which I think earned me at least an A- on my Ethics final during my senior year, I couldn’t tell you a thing about what I was actually trying to say. It was absolutely ridiculous, and the madness continued with every sickeningly wordy document I opened. Don’t even get me started on all of the Civ papers I have stashed in there (PC students, you know what I’m talking about). It was like a dictionary drank too much and vomited all over my screen. Gross.

Anyway, after laughing at my former self who knew nothing of the real world other than how to bull-shit complex papers, which actually turned out to be a really great college skill in terms of grades, it got me thinking… what did I really LEARN in school? I don’t remember a thing about Kant, Darwin, Faust, or Drosophila Melanogaster (it’s a type of fly that I killed with alcohol exposure my freshmen year for a biology experiment, but I had to look at the lab report to trigger my memory). I was notorious for being able to crank out a 20 page paper in one night and have it at least resemble something that took weeks of preparation, but what did that process actually TEACH me? The information left my head as soon as it was rapidly typed out.

Mom, if you’re reading this, don’t worry. The purpose of this post isn’t to conclude that my mountain of student loans is a complete waste. It’s just such a bizarre transition, which so many people make—the transition from being a student to NOT being a student anymore. My job in life was so simple. Study. Do well. Build your extra curricular activities. Learn. LEARN. And I did learn. Maybe I didn’t learn derivatives well enough to remember how they work, and maybe I didn’t learn about Newton’s Laws to the point of being able to recite them, but I learned how to balance A LOT of activities with studying and a social life. I learned how to be confident. I learned how organize. I learned how to communicate better. I learned a lot about myself, which prepared me to tackle this experience.

Now, back to the present. Life is really different. I am no longer a student. I am a teacher, a foreigner, a community mate, a choir member, a person who’s got a lot of privilege. And I am learning everyday, in ways that are hilariously different from writing a college paper. Just two days ago, I had a miserably high fever, blurred vision, and felt sicker than I ever had in my life. My awesome roommate Shea turned into a dad and walked with me to the nearby clinic, about two blocks from our house. It was my first time at a Tanzanian dispensary, and while my head was too spacey to notice all of the details, it was pretty clear that I wasn’t in “Kansas” anymore. Blood was taken from my hand, I had to poop in a little matchbox, I was given a shot in my butt to bring the fever down, and while I was resting on a sheet-less bed, two of my students who live nearby were running around and playing under the bed to keep me company while I was staring at my (luckily) empty vomit-bucket and trying to seem happy to see them. The standards were different, but when all was said and done, it was concluded that I had malaria and a type of parasite or amoeba or something in my stomach resulting in dysentery-like symptoms. I was given medicine, charged 30,000 shillings, which is extremely exorbitant in this context, but only translates to about 20 USD, and sent on my way. The following night and day were pretty miserable, but now it’s Friday, and I’m feeling almost completely back to normal.

I am learning everyday here. I am learning that malaria absolutely sucks, and that it is so easy to cure if you have access to the correct medicine. I’m learning that if I didn't feel better today, I could have easily gone to a western medical clinic on the ex-pat side of town, which is a place my neighbors could never go to, and I’m learning how to deal with the realities of that disparity between me and the people I am supposed to be accompanying. I am learning that hospitals can make you better even if they aren't sterile-white. And I’m learning other things, too. I can cook food that isn’t Ramen noodles or a microwavable burrito. I can wash dishes without running water. Naweza kuongea Kiswahili kidogo, lakini bado ninajifunza (I’m able to speak a little Swahili, but I’m still learning). I am learning how to teach, and to enjoy teaching. It doesn’t really matter what Kant says about happiness… even after reading my paper, I still don’t really know what his problem with it is. I’m learning that I’m happy here, and I’m happy to be finishing up my first year with all of the new stuff I’ve learned. Bring it on, year two.