Falalalala

It’s been awhile since I last wrote, and let me just say that A LOT has happened in that time… SOOOO this post will only cover up to Christmas, and I’ll try to share some stories about New Years in a few weeks (one of my New Years resolutions was to post more frequently… we’ll see). After saying a tearful goodbye to Cat and Shea, who taught Cait and I everything we know about Tanzania, comforted us during bouts of homesickness and stomach sickness, and boosted our spirits with laughter and support, we welcomed four more lovely ladies into the country. Two would be joining Cait and I in Dar es Salaam, and the others would be working in Dodoma with Cristina and Hannah, the other rockstar volunteers that started this journey with us back in 2011. I knew this moment was bound to come—the moment when I would cease to be the dependent, know-nothing newbie pattering along aimlessly while my more knowledgeable second years took care of daunting tasks like buying onions and flushing the toilet with used laundry water. Time to buck up, kiddo.  Now I was to BECOME that more knowledgeable second year. Yikes.

But so far, so very very good. Our new cohort of eight TZ volunteers (all girls this year) spent Christmas together in Dodoma (See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05owRVdI2E4&feature=youtu.be).  We went to a Christmas Eve mass at 9pm that included flags, dancing, smoke/incense, and flashing lights (not even kidding), followed by a hang-out session with the Jesuits and sisters of the Dodoma parish. We drank beer, ate samosas and popcorn, and chatted about everything from South Sudan (where one of the Jesuits once lived as a child soldier before it became the planet’s newest country) to Euro league football teams (I don’t even know if “Euro league” is the correct term. Ah, well).  The following morning, feeling groggy and a little cranky, we went to Hannah’s work site, The Village of Hope, which is a community that includes an orphanage, primary and secondary school, and dispensary. The village serves youth who are deeply affected by or infected with HIV/AIDS. Hannah works at the primary school at the village and it is a BEAUTIFUL place. We attended another mass when we got there that was kicked off with a performance of the Christmas Pageant in Kiswahili, which definitely cured my groggy mood. The kids who played the angels literally walked around in circles flapping their arms. Precious. After the pageant, the mass started, which reminded me of the mass we had attended the previous evening—mostly because it included a lot of smoke, dancing, and drums, BUT this one featured a baby being marched down the aisle in a basket that was perched on a woman’s head. The basket had The Bible and some incense, and the baby looked confused as hell. I’m not sure if that ceremony would have gone over very well in the states, but it was pretty awesome, and no babies were harmed in the process.

Following mass, we spent about two hours leading the children of the village in some “Christmas” activities. Basically that just looked like the eight of us splitting up among the kids and making sailor hats out of newspaper (“I saw three ships come sailing in”… too much of a stretch?), drawing Christmas trees (which, believe it or not, aren't very prevalent around these parts), and playing Simon Says (absolutely no connection there). I brought my small travel guitar with me, so I was in charge of the MUSIC station. I formed the chords with my left hand, and let the kids take turns strumming the body of the guitar, which made them feel like they were the ones playing the Christmas tunes. Most of the children don’t speak English, so it was interesting trying to get them to mimic the words of “Jingle Bells” and “Deck the Halls” (fun fact: L’s and R’s are a BIG struggle to distinguish in this country, so the level of hilarity during the “Falalalala” refrain was even better than the end of “A Christmas Story”.  Pure gold), but they did great, all things considered.

One of the most enthusiastic singers and guitarists, Vincent, is a boy of about 9 or 10 who thrust himself to the front of the line at every opportunity, saying “Na mimi sasa! Mimi tena!” (My turn now! Me again!), and when the other kids slowly started to walk to the main hall for lunch, he stuck around to get maximum playing time. His small fingers struggled to push the strings down hard enough when I finally allowed him to try forming the chords himself, but that didn’t stop him from scream-singing in his best rockstar voice and jumping around—strumming off-pitch, muted and dinky notes. When it was finally time to turn in, I let him carry the guitar ahead while I followed a few yards behind, holding the hand of a young girl who was about the height of a mid-sized puppy. Thinking he would forget to leave the guitar at the front of the building, I tried to call out after him, but forgot his name. Something… Italian sounding, was it? “Francisco! Francisco, wait!”

Clearly, Vincent didn’t turn around or acknowledge the crazy American teacher behind him shouting a random Italian name, and so I asked the girl beside me to help me out. Vincent. Right. Maybe he didn’t notice. I kept quiet until I eventually caught up with him and, thinking I was in the clear, smiled as he handed me the guitar. Vincent raised his eyebrow with a smirk and said, “So, Teacha Betha, what’s my name?” Shit. Hoping there was still time to recover, I replied confidently, “Why, you’re Vincent, of course!” in my best Swahili.  He chuckled. “Right. Vincent. Not Francisco.”  And with another amused smirk and shake of the head, he turned around and joined his friends for lunch.

I’m not sure if I’ve expressed this before, but I get called A LOT of names in this country. Mzungu. Bertha. Bettah. Suzie. Katie. Berrrrh (seriously, it’s happened more than once). Catherine. Sistah. Beybi. Sometimes, it’s amusing. Usually, it’s frustrating. Beth. BETH. My name is BETH. How hard can that be to remember? Why can’t you pronounce it correctly? HOW can you be mistaking me for Catherine right now, even though I’m wearing her old clothes, we have the same skin and hair colour, and my glasses resemble hers? So. Rude. But Vincent helped me realize how silly my frustrations in that regard are. If I confuse the names “Vincent” and “Francisco” just because they’re both kind of Italian and share the letters “n”, “c”, and “i”, I can’t even BEGIN to imagine how difficult it is for someone to keep our wacky western names distinct. And Vincent wasn’t angry, he thought it was funny. Bless him.

All in all, Christmas this year was a great success, and not just because Dodoma has 0% humidity and I got to sleep comfortably with a sheet covering my body for the first time since July (bonus: my hair also didn’t look like it came out of an 80’s fashion magazine, which has become the norm for me in Dar). Christmas was great because I got to spend it doing what I love most—sharing music. And so what if I failed to remember Vincent’s name? I fail at a lot of things here. I fail at Swahili everyday. I fail at being present in countless would-be awesome moments. I fail at keeping my patience and being culturally sensitive when I’m pissed off at the motorcycle cruising down what I thought was the pedestrian sidewalk. I fail at keeping in touch with people from home. I just FAIL. But we’re not meant to always succeed, and my failures help remind me that we’re all just TRYING. The guy who calls me “Berrrrh” or “Suzie” is calling me SOMETHING, is acknowledging me as a person, as an individual, with a NAME. And that feels really, really good.  

(Vincent is the boy looking very sharp with the yellow shirt and red tie)