Our Swahili-speaking abilities improve every time we visit Zanzibar (and even in between trips, thanks to classes and internet radio), but we still slip up and confuse words now and then.
Okay, more than now and then. But Zanzibaris are polite enough to not point them out to us. Unless the mistake is so bad that all we get is blank stares or hearty laughs or shocked gasps.
Here are a couple examples of our funnier mistakes and mispronunciations:
"Niligonga mguu uchumi." I banged my foot against the economy.
It should have been, "Niligonga mguu chuma!" I banged my foot against the steel pole.
"Nipe sabuni ya kuongea na kulea." Can I have soap so I can talk to people and raise children?
It should have been, "Nipe sabuni ya kuoga na kunawa." Can I have soap for bathing and washing hands?
"Wanawake wote wa Merikani huvaa serikali." Most American women wear governments.
It should have been, "Wanawake wote wa Merikani huvaa suruali." Most American women wear pants.
"Ninasoma chooni." I study in the bathroom.
It should have been, "Ninasoma chuoni." I study at the university.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
random pictures of us in Pemba
Thought you might enjoy seeing some of our pictures from Pemba, but there are so many of them I will group them in slide shows.
These are of the three of us around town and at home:
These are of the three of us around town and at home:
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
rain in Pemba
It’s not the rainy season, but it rains nearly every day anyway. I’ve never been here during the long rainy season and I’m not sure I want to, with the heavy water running muddy and murky and toxic down the roads and ditches. Even in the cool, dry season that is now the water in the stream in the bottom of the valley emits a putrid smell and unearthly bluish glow and the houses nearest it are on the cheapest plots of land. The rain when it comes in this cool, dry season is quick and loud and weighty, pouring on the tin roof with a glorious sound that muffles conversation and is surprising every time. In Stone Town’s narrow stone streets, these rains create instant rivers of the walkways, with side streams feeding in from the alleys into the larger openings.
Boys playing soccer scatter to the higher ground of baraza and porch steps, under the awnings, to wait it out, because they never last long, these rains. Juma was caught on the wrong side of the street-turned-river on one of his first days in Stone Town when he was three, stuck crying under a tin awning as the rain made a noise too loud for his little heart to handle, too far away from his mama, and he never quite forgave the rain and the tin roofs for that. A teenage boy looked and understood his desperation, hefted him up and raced him across the little river to me, both of them soaked by the falling water, and the teenager’s jeans soaked up to his knees from the street water.
Boys playing soccer scatter to the higher ground of baraza and porch steps, under the awnings, to wait it out, because they never last long, these rains. Juma was caught on the wrong side of the street-turned-river on one of his first days in Stone Town when he was three, stuck crying under a tin awning as the rain made a noise too loud for his little heart to handle, too far away from his mama, and he never quite forgave the rain and the tin roofs for that. A teenage boy looked and understood his desperation, hefted him up and raced him across the little river to me, both of them soaked by the falling water, and the teenager’s jeans soaked up to his knees from the street water.
Friday, July 11, 2008
continued musings
This continues from the previous two posts:
This is when the street vendors are out, selling their loafs of bread, and their fried octopus for 100 shillings a piece and the customers stab the white meat with toothpicks while dropping the coins on the table all in one motion and then pop the bits, suction cups and all, in their mouths. It’s men out at this hour, the women home with the kids, making the last minute preparations for the light evening meal. It’s men who are out, chatting and buying and lingering near the kerosene lamps fashioned from old cans of bug killer and thin rope for the wick. I am uncomfortable going out at that hour to buy the bread and chipsi mayai that is our dinner almost every night. The only other women out are a few sellers of chapati and maandazi and their reputations are questioned because of it. Perhaps they are widows or divorcees or their husbands are drunks or military and stationed far away and send all their money to their mistresses instead of home, and perhaps these women sell sex on the side and perhaps they don’t but it doesn’t matter because every one believes they do anyway. They are desperate for the money, desperate enough that the gossip doesn’t matter because their children’s bellies are empty and mothers can do anything to fill their children’s bellies. If I was a Pemban, it would be me with the questionable reputation, and my husband too, because why would he send his wife out among all those men to buy the food, when he should do that himself, while I stay protected in the house. But since I am not Pemban, since I will never be Pemban, no matter how hard I try to fix my accent and how well I tie my head wrap, I can go out to buy the evening bread and people know it’s not because I do not have a husband to do that but because I am foreign and foreigners have their own customs, and they do things in their own way, not uswahilini, the Swahili way.
But it took me a long time to learn to accept that, and I used to be always angsty about doing things just right and by local custom and habits, but that’s okay now, because I’ve seen that some customs are just patterns that mean not much and others are even hurtful and those are okay to break even if it makes people a little uncomfortable.
This is when the street vendors are out, selling their loafs of bread, and their fried octopus for 100 shillings a piece and the customers stab the white meat with toothpicks while dropping the coins on the table all in one motion and then pop the bits, suction cups and all, in their mouths. It’s men out at this hour, the women home with the kids, making the last minute preparations for the light evening meal. It’s men who are out, chatting and buying and lingering near the kerosene lamps fashioned from old cans of bug killer and thin rope for the wick. I am uncomfortable going out at that hour to buy the bread and chipsi mayai that is our dinner almost every night. The only other women out are a few sellers of chapati and maandazi and their reputations are questioned because of it. Perhaps they are widows or divorcees or their husbands are drunks or military and stationed far away and send all their money to their mistresses instead of home, and perhaps these women sell sex on the side and perhaps they don’t but it doesn’t matter because every one believes they do anyway. They are desperate for the money, desperate enough that the gossip doesn’t matter because their children’s bellies are empty and mothers can do anything to fill their children’s bellies. If I was a Pemban, it would be me with the questionable reputation, and my husband too, because why would he send his wife out among all those men to buy the food, when he should do that himself, while I stay protected in the house. But since I am not Pemban, since I will never be Pemban, no matter how hard I try to fix my accent and how well I tie my head wrap, I can go out to buy the evening bread and people know it’s not because I do not have a husband to do that but because I am foreign and foreigners have their own customs, and they do things in their own way, not uswahilini, the Swahili way.
But it took me a long time to learn to accept that, and I used to be always angsty about doing things just right and by local custom and habits, but that’s okay now, because I’ve seen that some customs are just patterns that mean not much and others are even hurtful and those are okay to break even if it makes people a little uncomfortable.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
more musings in Pemba
This follows from my previous post:
It helped, too, that I came to Pemba after three trips in Unguja. In Unguja, I made most of the mistakes, the cultural faux pas that broke the norms that are so normal that people don’t even realize I broke them, just that they are uncomfortable somehow. Through daily interaction and screwing up and offending and people mercifully pointing things out to my blind American self, I picked up little by little the behavior that helped people feel like I was a little less out of place, a little more than a tourist, a little more at home. The endless greetings; the modest and clean, pressed clothes; the slow walk down the street; the passing people so our right sides are closest. And the timing of the day: the early hour that begins the day, the work and chores--sweeping, laundry, shopping--in the morning, the late, big lunch in the early afternoon; then the afternoon shower and change of clothes, and the late afternoon visiting. When people’s work and chores are done, and the women sit around the barazas near their houses and gossip and maybe embroider or plait mats or each others’ hair, and the men head out to favorite hang-outs, the younger ones to play soccer, the older ones to sit on public baraza and discuss social issues. Or to just sit and be there, with each other. Calling out greetings to others who pass by, always ending in karibu, welcome, always ending with karibu.
If you walk anywhere at those early evening hours, from four or five to well past dark, you best be prepared to take your time. This is the social hour, where neighbors meet and talk and keep up their friendships. Greeting everyone you pass is essential; missing anyone is rude, even if it was only because it was so dark you couldn’t notice them sitting there, 15 feet away at the neighboring baraza. Call out shikamoo to the old ones, and hujambo to the middle-aged ones, and mambo to the young ones, chei chei to the toddlers.
to be continued...
It helped, too, that I came to Pemba after three trips in Unguja. In Unguja, I made most of the mistakes, the cultural faux pas that broke the norms that are so normal that people don’t even realize I broke them, just that they are uncomfortable somehow. Through daily interaction and screwing up and offending and people mercifully pointing things out to my blind American self, I picked up little by little the behavior that helped people feel like I was a little less out of place, a little more than a tourist, a little more at home. The endless greetings; the modest and clean, pressed clothes; the slow walk down the street; the passing people so our right sides are closest. And the timing of the day: the early hour that begins the day, the work and chores--sweeping, laundry, shopping--in the morning, the late, big lunch in the early afternoon; then the afternoon shower and change of clothes, and the late afternoon visiting. When people’s work and chores are done, and the women sit around the barazas near their houses and gossip and maybe embroider or plait mats or each others’ hair, and the men head out to favorite hang-outs, the younger ones to play soccer, the older ones to sit on public baraza and discuss social issues. Or to just sit and be there, with each other. Calling out greetings to others who pass by, always ending in karibu, welcome, always ending with karibu.
If you walk anywhere at those early evening hours, from four or five to well past dark, you best be prepared to take your time. This is the social hour, where neighbors meet and talk and keep up their friendships. Greeting everyone you pass is essential; missing anyone is rude, even if it was only because it was so dark you couldn’t notice them sitting there, 15 feet away at the neighboring baraza. Call out shikamoo to the old ones, and hujambo to the middle-aged ones, and mambo to the young ones, chei chei to the toddlers.
to be continued...
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
thoughts in Pemba
We are back and home safe. The day after arriving in the US, we boarded our 6th plane in 4 days and flew to Seattle for a family reunion. Yesterday we got back from that and have been catching up on errands, laundry, and sleep since then.
Over the next couple weeks, I'll post more about our Pemba trip, along with pictures. For now, here is a bit I wrote while in Pemba when my muse hit me. (I had just read two Cormac McCarthy books, so his style influenced me a little. Bear with me.)
Legs stretched out in front of me, laptop on my thighs, I sit on the king size bed with the light green fitted sheet we brought from America, ‘cause there are no fitted sheets here, and this is the first trip we’ve been smart enough to just bring one with us, but the damn sheet is only queen size so it always popping off at the corners. Which makes it not much better than a flat sheet folded under the mattress, like how they do it here, but at least the one we brought for Juma’s bed fits his mattress. There are three pillows on our bed, but only two of us, but that’s okay. And one floral-print flat sheet, which I use as a blanket, because it never gets cold enough here to need more than a sheet. And sometimes, when the electricity is out and so there’s no ceiling fan, it’s too hot for even that, and I sleep like Justin does, as naked as possible, trying to have no part of my body touch any other part lest my body be covered in a sticky, sickly sweat all night. But that happens anyway, even with the fan on, and I am always ready for a shower first thing in the morning, even if I took one just before bed. And the showers are always cold, and the chill feels good in this heat. It feels good to be cold for at least a few minutes twice a day.
The laptop plays random songs from our giant collection of modern music. Scar Tissue is on now. I never brought music with me before. It was somehow not rugged enough, to go to Africa and bring all my American music and discman and mp3 players and gig after gig of music on our hard drive. Like listening to something familiar, instead of the local music, would take away from my experience, make it less African. I’d never make it to the status of “gone native” if I brought U2 and The Killers and Red Hot Chili Peppers with me. I was like that, before. Tried as hard as possible to get into the culture, and leave our Americanness behind. Then about the time when people started to joke with me that we were really Pemban now--I dressed right, I talked right, I acted right--I started to relax on my impossible previous standard. I am American and always will be, no matter how I dress and talk and act. That buibui covers my body, but it never covers the fact that I am white. And my accent will give me away, every time. Every damn time. Even on the phone.
It’s not that I’ve given up trying. I still pay attention to cultural cues and greet right and dress right and know when to give which gift of which size and when to take off my shoes and when to extend my hand and when to keep it by my side and when to eat the food offered and how much of it and what the best time of day is to go visiting. I just gave up trying to force myself into the impossible--to become Zanzibari. I will always be foreigner to them; I have accepted that. And with that acceptance that came finally after three painful-but-enjoyable trips, I loved it all the more here.
More later...
Over the next couple weeks, I'll post more about our Pemba trip, along with pictures. For now, here is a bit I wrote while in Pemba when my muse hit me. (I had just read two Cormac McCarthy books, so his style influenced me a little. Bear with me.)
Legs stretched out in front of me, laptop on my thighs, I sit on the king size bed with the light green fitted sheet we brought from America, ‘cause there are no fitted sheets here, and this is the first trip we’ve been smart enough to just bring one with us, but the damn sheet is only queen size so it always popping off at the corners. Which makes it not much better than a flat sheet folded under the mattress, like how they do it here, but at least the one we brought for Juma’s bed fits his mattress. There are three pillows on our bed, but only two of us, but that’s okay. And one floral-print flat sheet, which I use as a blanket, because it never gets cold enough here to need more than a sheet. And sometimes, when the electricity is out and so there’s no ceiling fan, it’s too hot for even that, and I sleep like Justin does, as naked as possible, trying to have no part of my body touch any other part lest my body be covered in a sticky, sickly sweat all night. But that happens anyway, even with the fan on, and I am always ready for a shower first thing in the morning, even if I took one just before bed. And the showers are always cold, and the chill feels good in this heat. It feels good to be cold for at least a few minutes twice a day.
The laptop plays random songs from our giant collection of modern music. Scar Tissue is on now. I never brought music with me before. It was somehow not rugged enough, to go to Africa and bring all my American music and discman and mp3 players and gig after gig of music on our hard drive. Like listening to something familiar, instead of the local music, would take away from my experience, make it less African. I’d never make it to the status of “gone native” if I brought U2 and The Killers and Red Hot Chili Peppers with me. I was like that, before. Tried as hard as possible to get into the culture, and leave our Americanness behind. Then about the time when people started to joke with me that we were really Pemban now--I dressed right, I talked right, I acted right--I started to relax on my impossible previous standard. I am American and always will be, no matter how I dress and talk and act. That buibui covers my body, but it never covers the fact that I am white. And my accent will give me away, every time. Every damn time. Even on the phone.
It’s not that I’ve given up trying. I still pay attention to cultural cues and greet right and dress right and know when to give which gift of which size and when to take off my shoes and when to extend my hand and when to keep it by my side and when to eat the food offered and how much of it and what the best time of day is to go visiting. I just gave up trying to force myself into the impossible--to become Zanzibari. I will always be foreigner to them; I have accepted that. And with that acceptance that came finally after three painful-but-enjoyable trips, I loved it all the more here.
More later...
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