Malaria Mosquitoes

Malaria Mosquitoes

I got my first mosquito bite yesterday. I didn’t even notice until I rubbed my elbow and the itch started. It happened during our time with out Kiswahili tutor in the late morning. I thought the little critters were most active at dawn and dusk. Anyway, one found me. It wasn’t a big deal at first, and then I started thinking. That usually gets me in trouble. I found myself on several occasions looking at the vein in my arm pictured Plasmodium falciparum coursing through my blood stream. My thought-movie was in Technicolor and nifty animation like you’d see in House, M.D. or CSI. (My imagination was in overdrive.)

I have never had to worry about contagious disease like this before. The majority of people around me, Tanzanians that is, it’s a fact of life. Some put it like this, though I didn’t remember who said it: In the US, you get sick and assume it’s a cold or the flu. In Tanzania, you get sick and you treat it like malaria. I read a statistic that said that up to sixty percent of Tanzania’s adult population has asymptomatic malaria. That means that any given time, their blood would test positive for the parasite, yet show no physical symptoms of the disease. This is a positive for adults as their system apparently has enough immunity to keep a symptomatic infection at bay. Children, those hardest hit by malaria, do not have this advantage as they have had less exposure to the disease. Thinking about the depth and breadth of this issue can be overwhelming. The biggest hindrance to eradication in the country is funding. Funding is needed for many areas not just healthcare. It would take an overhaul of the nation’s public sanitation and water systems as well as additions to the system combined with universal malaria education and a public support of the project. The standing water virtually everywhere is the perfect breeding ground for these nasty pests. Eradication is a long way off in this country. Until then it’s about prevention and public awareness.

Extrovert on Vacation

I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to speak. My extrovert is in hibernation until January. I am really nervous about speaking the little Kiswahili I know. My experience has been once you make it a little ways into the greetings, the person you are talking to takes off at full speed and you’re left there nodding and trying to understand. At least when I was being spoken to in KiMaa, I could get by with mumbling, “Eehhh.” Not so much here. It seems as though those I meet, at least at the university are testing my ability to cope with their speech. I usually just sit back and smile. Even in the group it is an exercise in sorting out who, what, when, and how everyone speaks. Though speaking with those around me is far more challenging. I think I might be OK if there weren’t so many formalized greetings. I know many of the words that we’ve learned, but putting them into sentences is difficult. I’m more comfortable with sentences abou random things. I think all fo the greetings are uncomfortable because I’m talking to complete strangers, many of whom I’ll never see again. At home, it’s a cascual Hi with a smile as you pass someone; here is it a prescribed set of Hellos, What’s the News?, etc. It is far more intimate and personal than I like to be with people I have no connection to.

The loud, crazy, fun part of me misses those who know that part of me. I miss those people I can let my guard down with and just be. I do that well alone here, but what’s the point of being unguarded if you can’t share your truest self with anyone. I’m making progress. I just have to remember that I haven’t’ been here that long. Swahili still feels strange coming out of my mouth.

You can call me Dalila.

My professor called it a baptism in Kiswahili. On second thought, it became more than that. It was me choosing to become a part of their culture in a simple way. I’ve always thought about what it would be like to have a different name as mine is fairly uncommon and I am frequently called something besides my name. It’s been even more frequent being in Tanzania. Only once or twice has it been really frustrating to not hear my name…said properly…or even be spoken to by name and not part of a general group. Back to the story…sitting in our first morning of language lessons, we were given a sheet of Swahili names to pick from. All of a sudden, I couldn’t pick a new name. It was scary to think about. I felt like I was asked to redefine myself in three minutes. It came to the wire and I had to make a choice. I chose Dalila. It means “proof” in Swahili. Somewhat suiting seeing my nature. There was another one I liked as well, but someone else picked it. I was too afraid to speak up first or else I would have a different name. I think it will all work out well. I still have to think about answering to that name. I miss hearing my name said. There is something about it that marks you as an individual. Coming from an more individualistic society, I think I expect to be recognized as an individual, as Shanea’, not Friend or Sister that I hear so frequently here. I think Ma’am or Miss would bother me less than the ambiguity of a general term.

Three days in a boma...I smell like goat!

Thursday through this morning we were at a home stay with a Maasai family. It was quite the adventure in more than one way.

Short version: Hiking 7k uphill in a skirt, milking a goat (I'm pretty good at it) slaughtering the goat (and watching people eat it raw), dancing with Maasai women until late, late, late, and then making it home. If you are still intrigued, read more details below.

On the way to the boma, we created our own road. Well, maybe one or two cars had gone before us. We stopped at the secondary school and decided to walk into the village from there. I was told it would be an hour. I didn't realize how long or how far that hour would take us. It was about 4k and I did it wearing a kanga (skirt type thing) over my pants. My range of motion was severely restricted. Once we made it into the village, Dodo, our cook made us lunch. Quite tasty for bush food. After our afternoon lecture, we were sent to journal "until the cows come home." That was a literal statement. We could sit in the yard until the goats came, but had to be moved by the time the cows came or they would trample us. Once the goats and sheep came in, we got to milk goats. It's a bit challenging since the teats are so tiny. I managed to get a few squirts out. Not enough for my tea though.

The sun promptly rises at 7am and sets at 7pm. After it was sufficiently dark, we laid out in the pasture watching the stars. I saw the Milky Way so clearly. The stars were amazing!

Friday morning we took off for the orpul, the sacred healing spot in Maasai medicine. It was quite the journey there...once again in a skirt...probably another 4 or 5k. (I'm an awful judge of distance, but it was in interesting trek on cow trails.)
Once there Gemma gave us a lecture on Maasai traditional medicine and we proceed with the goat slaughter. I was hoping to participate, but the warriors do it. It was less gruesome than I thought it would be. It was very systematic. The goat was killed by suffocation so there was no awful squealing or gurgling. I'll spare you the remainder of the details as I know I have squeamish readers. Basically we were asked to consume raw meat and organs followed by medicinal soup. I politely declined though I watched others including a five year old partake.

The roasted meat was really good. Surprisingly I like goat. After the eating and singing, the warriors made us these nifty goat skin rings/bracelets. It was cool until i put it on. The skin was still a bit bloody and kinda slimy. I wore it until I got back to the boma and couldn't take the smell anymore. It's dried now and I'll resume wearing it in a day or so. It's pretty cool looking.

Once we made it back to camp, barely before the goats, we had dinner and chatted. After it was sufficiently late, the warriors started chanting and the shoto began. It's an interesting process of the warriors jumping and chanting while the ladies call back and shake their huge beaded collars. I got kinda good at it. Basically it was dirty dancing Maasai style. It was an experience. That's all I'm gonna say.

OK, that's the somewhat longer version. I'm headed to dinner now. Goat...Yummy!

Dancing!

Tonight we danced with the Maasai. There was something pretty amazing about it. I’m not sure of the best way to describe how the experience felt; it was a little strange at first, yet once I started to take the whole context in, I felt like I was connecting with something from in me. At first it was awkward as I was challenged to use parts of my body that I normally do not use or at least move in the same fashion. I mastered the basic rhythm and then got thrown in the circle by one of the ladies. It was definitely fun, but I felt so aware of my every move. Trying to copy their style without accidentally adding my own interpretation as a dancer that might be interpreted differently than my intentions was something I had to consciously think about. I was captivated by the dancers. I see why this ritual is seen as a display of power and sexuality from the men and women alike. It was freeing to be able to join in and for a few minutes, as awkward as I felt in my movement, not be an outsider. I was part of the group. I was dancing with, not at, for or around, with the Maasai. I did it. It will always be a memory. There was no way to describe the etherealness of the scene and the sounds of the chanting. It is something to be experienced.