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Just just read me :)
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
LET US PRAY. FINALLY!
Please click on the title of this post so that you can eventually watch the video of the children at the pre-school in Nkhata Bay, Malawi, as they say grace before their meal.
Only the strong
If you click on the title of this blog post it will take you to a video on you tube and I urge you to visit this address.
This is one of the songs that we sing as we play Capoeira. The best version that I could find on the net is one with a backing track. We only use the birimbau and Pandeiro (a Brazilian tambourine). These are the lyrics:
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
Vou me embora enquanto e cedo
que a noite tenho medo!
Parana Paranaue, paranaue, parana
Mulher pra ser bonita, parana
Nao precisa se pintar, parana.
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
A pintura e do artista, parana,
A beleza e Deus que da, parana.
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
I'm leaving while it's early
because at night I'm afraid!
Parana Paranaue, paranaue, parana
for a woman to be beautiful, parana
she doesn't need to paint herself, parana.
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
A painting is by an artist, parana,
Beauty is given by God, parana.
Here is a explanation of the song from capoeira.com
"Parana is the name of a state in Brazil. It has come to represent freedom and is used symbolically in many capoeira songs. Aruande and Luanda (the capital of Angola) are often used similarly representing freedom, or even heaven, and often carry a feeling of nostalgia. Of course this would be a common theme among slaves singing of desired freedoms. What types of freedom might modern capoeiristas be seeking?"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=creOWJGnowo&feature=related
here is one final link to listen to another well known Capoeira song. Also with a backing track but at least this one has the birimbau on its own at the beginning
This is one of the songs that we sing as we play Capoeira. The best version that I could find on the net is one with a backing track. We only use the birimbau and Pandeiro (a Brazilian tambourine). These are the lyrics:
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
Vou me embora enquanto e cedo
que a noite tenho medo!
Parana Paranaue, paranaue, parana
Mulher pra ser bonita, parana
Nao precisa se pintar, parana.
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
A pintura e do artista, parana,
A beleza e Deus que da, parana.
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
I'm leaving while it's early
because at night I'm afraid!
Parana Paranaue, paranaue, parana
for a woman to be beautiful, parana
she doesn't need to paint herself, parana.
Paranaue, paranaue, parana
A painting is by an artist, parana,
Beauty is given by God, parana.
Here is a explanation of the song from capoeira.com
"Parana is the name of a state in Brazil. It has come to represent freedom and is used symbolically in many capoeira songs. Aruande and Luanda (the capital of Angola) are often used similarly representing freedom, or even heaven, and often carry a feeling of nostalgia. Of course this would be a common theme among slaves singing of desired freedoms. What types of freedom might modern capoeiristas be seeking?"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=creOWJGnowo&feature=related
here is one final link to listen to another well known Capoeira song. Also with a backing track but at least this one has the birimbau on its own at the beginning
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
...and then...
...the reason for lingerie shopping in Zanzibar is revealed.
If you go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/30199568@N05/sets/72157627715660248/ you can browse the underwater photo shoot pictures that Angela and I modelled for.
Much fun, much water in the nose, burning eyes and beautiful coral reefs.
If there are any problems with accessing the pictures, look for the underwater h2o section.
POA!
If you go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/30199568@N05/sets/72157627715660248/ you can browse the underwater photo shoot pictures that Angela and I modelled for.
Much fun, much water in the nose, burning eyes and beautiful coral reefs.
If there are any problems with accessing the pictures, look for the underwater h2o section.
POA!
Pilau
The hina has faded, the bellies have recovered from too much chai and biscuits and cake and chapatis and rice. Now in memory of sikuku, here is a recipe for pilau.
I learnt how to cook pilau from two people: one, my friend who is a photographer and a local, and the other from a lady whom I chatted to on the day that I was painted in hina and piko.
I learnt this one from the famous and very talented photographer. She invited me to her home and I followed the progress of the lunch being cooked. Every friday, the family eats Pilau with some fort of meat. Here it is:
1. fry onion in A LOT of ghee (or oil). Fry the onion for a long time, until is it nice and soft.
2. then add about four chunks of potato (or more if you so want, this meal was to serve about 4 peopl)
3. then add garlic, ginger and then after a few minutes, cinnamon, 2/3 cloves, cumin, cardamon and black pepper.
4. cook for a few minutes and the add the amount of rice you need and stick and leave to cook until the rice is done.
This is pilau. As I have mentioned before, the people whom I have met do not work with exact measurements, this I am afraid need to be cooked with taste.
The second recipe I learnt from the dear hina ladies. The sister told me in mixed kiSwahili and English, interupted with excited additions by her sister. Her recipe will be remembered here, in absence, for alas I cannot remember it!
Please enjoy the Pilau.
I learnt how to cook pilau from two people: one, my friend who is a photographer and a local, and the other from a lady whom I chatted to on the day that I was painted in hina and piko.
I learnt this one from the famous and very talented photographer. She invited me to her home and I followed the progress of the lunch being cooked. Every friday, the family eats Pilau with some fort of meat. Here it is:
1. fry onion in A LOT of ghee (or oil). Fry the onion for a long time, until is it nice and soft.
2. then add about four chunks of potato (or more if you so want, this meal was to serve about 4 peopl)
3. then add garlic, ginger and then after a few minutes, cinnamon, 2/3 cloves, cumin, cardamon and black pepper.
4. cook for a few minutes and the add the amount of rice you need and stick and leave to cook until the rice is done.
This is pilau. As I have mentioned before, the people whom I have met do not work with exact measurements, this I am afraid need to be cooked with taste.
The second recipe I learnt from the dear hina ladies. The sister told me in mixed kiSwahili and English, interupted with excited additions by her sister. Her recipe will be remembered here, in absence, for alas I cannot remember it!
Please enjoy the Pilau.
Friday, December 2, 2011
The Zanzibar Leopard
There was once an animal called the Zanzibar leopard.
This story begins with the union of Tanganyika and Zanzibar, to make Tanzania. Zanzibaris do not like the fact that they are no longer their own independent country. Zanzibar has its own president and Government. They are basically their own country, except for the fact that they no longer have the final say about what happens to their country.
Zanzibaris tell me that they do not like the union because Zanzibar has just become a money making tool for the mainland. Their architecture is a World Heritage Site. Their spices, especially their cloves and clove oil is world renowned and exported widely under the banner of Tanzania and most of the money, I am told, returns to the mainland and very little finds its way back to the island.
And then a few days ago a local told me that there were once leopards on the island. And I argued with him, saying that there were never leopards on the island. Until that is, I learnt of this specific animal called the Zanzibar leopard. He told me that the mainland came onto the island and got rid of the leopards. Just another of the many atrocities that happened to Zanzibar.
And then not a minute later I was told a rather bizarre story about this leopard. But no one had been able to verify this. The lady in question had heard it from a guide in the Jozani forests.
Once upon a time witchdoctors* of old used to train these leopards and when someone came to them to use their powers to get revenge on a person, the leopard would be unleashed. The leopards had been trained to kill and destroy livestock of a person. They were even trained to kill people. Apparently it became a huge menace.
And so one day the government (here she stops and giggles, finding it funny that even the government became involved) hired clairvoyants to come in and find out where the leopards were and who owned them. Thus the leopards were removed. Which government was involved she had no way of knowing.
*witchdoctors are very different from healers. Wichdoctors use potions, spells and magic, usually for evil ends. Healers use herbs and plants for healing purposes only. The wichdoctor may also give cures for ailments. But a healer only heals.
This story begins with the union of Tanganyika and Zanzibar, to make Tanzania. Zanzibaris do not like the fact that they are no longer their own independent country. Zanzibar has its own president and Government. They are basically their own country, except for the fact that they no longer have the final say about what happens to their country.
Zanzibaris tell me that they do not like the union because Zanzibar has just become a money making tool for the mainland. Their architecture is a World Heritage Site. Their spices, especially their cloves and clove oil is world renowned and exported widely under the banner of Tanzania and most of the money, I am told, returns to the mainland and very little finds its way back to the island.
And then a few days ago a local told me that there were once leopards on the island. And I argued with him, saying that there were never leopards on the island. Until that is, I learnt of this specific animal called the Zanzibar leopard. He told me that the mainland came onto the island and got rid of the leopards. Just another of the many atrocities that happened to Zanzibar.
And then not a minute later I was told a rather bizarre story about this leopard. But no one had been able to verify this. The lady in question had heard it from a guide in the Jozani forests.
Once upon a time witchdoctors* of old used to train these leopards and when someone came to them to use their powers to get revenge on a person, the leopard would be unleashed. The leopards had been trained to kill and destroy livestock of a person. They were even trained to kill people. Apparently it became a huge menace.
And so one day the government (here she stops and giggles, finding it funny that even the government became involved) hired clairvoyants to come in and find out where the leopards were and who owned them. Thus the leopards were removed. Which government was involved she had no way of knowing.
*witchdoctors are very different from healers. Wichdoctors use potions, spells and magic, usually for evil ends. Healers use herbs and plants for healing purposes only. The wichdoctor may also give cures for ailments. But a healer only heals.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Hina, piko, biriani and other sikuku enjoyments
Brace yourselves. This shall be a long post.
In Islam there are two very important celebrations in the year. The first one is one that most people across the world are familiar with: Eid ul Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting that Muslim people across the world take part in (fasting from sunrise to sunset).
I was in Zanzibar for the last week of Ramadan and then also for Eid*. I remember the day that Ramadan ended. The ending is marked by the sighting of the moon. Everyone whom I spoke to was sure that Ramadan would end on the Monday for the moon had been sighted in Malaysia. People got themselves excited at the prospect of eating three meals again and drinking water throughout the day. But alas the day passed and no moon was seen.
So the next day dawned with breakfast eaten at 4:30 am. And then the day wound to a close and people made their way to Forodhani gardens to eat and hope that the moon would be seen. Soon it was known that the moon was seen in Dar es Salaam, on the mainland. Surely it would be seen on the island. People waited. And then something was said and someone knew and all across Forodhani and Stone Town you heard cheers and clapping because eventually the moon made its appearance; fasting would and Eid would begin.
The nest day the streets were awash with beautifully dressed and make-uped little girls and bigger girls and young women and older mothers and grandmothers. And the men were dressed in the clean, new white Djelebas. All clothes are new and the days running up to Eid the streets of Stone Town were full of women bustling back and forth to find the material and get measured and have their new clothes made at any one of the many, many tailors to be found in the city.
The day is spent visiting friends and family and the night is spent eating at the Mnazi Moja market or at Forodhani Gardens. There streets and roads and paths and open areas are full of people.
I didn't get very involved in the first Eid. I'd just arrived on the island and I was working with Jahazi Festival.
And then, about a week and a half ago, I suddenly found out that there was going to be another Eid. And then I found out that in fact this is the biggest celebration in the Muslim calendar. And yet I had never heard of it!
It is called Eid ul Adha, the festival of the sacrifice which marks the end of the Hajj to mecca (that a lot of people take in the days leading up to the festival). It is a celebration of the sacrifice that Abraham was willing to make of his son, and the animal that was eventually sacrificed in his place. So yes there is a lot of slaughtering of animals... which is well, sad.
The times and dates of the festival are again reliant on the moon cycle. There is no month of fasting before, where if you are in Zanzibar (where the majority of the people are Muslin and therefore fast) it means that there is no food, well very very little food, available from when you wake up until 6:30pm. The island seems to carry on as normal before Eid ul Adah. And then suddenly people have new clothes again and much much food is prepared and there is four days of celebration and eating and revelry.
So this time I got involved.
My mom had come to visit me for a week in Zanzibar and she wanted hina done (for all yall westerrrrn folk, henna is actually pronounce hina, and so for this blog, it will be written as such). And on my mom's last full day on the island, while enjoying a fresh, hot, strong espresso cup of coffee in Jaws Corner, who comes to say hello to me? None other than Sada, my 4 year old mate who met me once while I was chatting to her uncle and now remembers my name and knows she get fused when I see her. She had beautiful hina on her hands and so we went immediately to her house (just off of Jaws Corner) and found out that it was her sisters friend who does the designs. So that Afternoon Aisha (Sada's sister) too us to Mahira.
Mahira is an artist. We arrived at a house where we climbed to the roof and in a bare room that I named the hina room, we found women draped in all manner of poses while they waited for the wet paste to dry and stain their skins. Mahira sat in all manner of poses as she wound her designs around and up and over women's bodies. For the whole body is often adorned with hina. Even though a woman's body is covered save for her face and hands, it is quite a beautiful thought that this hina that is put on the body is a beauty accessory that women do for themselves, no matter if the wold can see it.
Sometimes the women chatted, sometimes they didn't. On the rooftop a cool breeze blew through the room. And after maybe an hour it was mine and mothers turn.
Mahira as I said, is an artist. She wore a brown scarf wrapped around her head, not as a hijab (how Muslim women wrap their heads) but as many women in South Africa and other African countries wear a scarf; wrapped over the top and taken to the back and then wound round and round to form a "bun" effect at the back. Mahira wore glasses of the 70's Cadillac style, bejewelled on the sides. She wore a simple loose dress that skimmed over her hips, had a v-cut at the neck and shortish flared sleeves with braiding on the edges. I can't tell you what the original colour of it was (I think natural yellows and browns and the like) because it was COVERED with stains from the hina and piko that she used. Similarly her hands and fingers were stained dark by the dyes.
Now hina is the brown dye that most people are very familiar with. Piko is the black dye that I only learnt of on the island. Piko is actually a regular black hair dye that is mixed and squeezed out into patterns. Mahira sat me down and in under 10 minutes I had beautiful beautiful designs on my hands and feet. My mom only got her feet done.
And then we were instructed very firmly that we HAD to sit still so that it dried and not a drop of it was smudged. We sat and chatted to the women and the young girls (I have to brag and say that it was mostly in kiSwahili!) and then we moved outside and the younger girls, whose task it appeared to be, began peeling off the now dried paste. And once this was done out hands and feet were washed and dried for us.
This took the whole afternoon. Yet another place of the women.
And then on Saturday my mom left and then on Sunday, well it was sikuku time!
Sikuku is what celebration is called, I think it is a Swahili term. Regardless, I received 3 invitations to go to peoples houses.
This is what happens on the day: people wake up and get dressed and the morning is spent visiting friends and drinking litres of chai and eating many, many slices of cake! This is indeed what I did - three cups of spiced chai, 2 slices of cake at one house, 2 slices of cake and three biscuits and a chapati at another. And then two hours later a plate of biriani, and then maybe one hour later some pilau. Good grief!
But apparently this is normal, to eat three breakfasts and up to two lunches. I did feel loved that people invited me to their houses to celebrate with them!
So that is the tale of hima, piko, biriani and sikuku.
This celebrating continued for 4 days. This is indeed the biggest and most important Eid on the Muslim calendar.
Skuku njema!
*Eid means festival
In Islam there are two very important celebrations in the year. The first one is one that most people across the world are familiar with: Eid ul Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting that Muslim people across the world take part in (fasting from sunrise to sunset).
I was in Zanzibar for the last week of Ramadan and then also for Eid*. I remember the day that Ramadan ended. The ending is marked by the sighting of the moon. Everyone whom I spoke to was sure that Ramadan would end on the Monday for the moon had been sighted in Malaysia. People got themselves excited at the prospect of eating three meals again and drinking water throughout the day. But alas the day passed and no moon was seen.
So the next day dawned with breakfast eaten at 4:30 am. And then the day wound to a close and people made their way to Forodhani gardens to eat and hope that the moon would be seen. Soon it was known that the moon was seen in Dar es Salaam, on the mainland. Surely it would be seen on the island. People waited. And then something was said and someone knew and all across Forodhani and Stone Town you heard cheers and clapping because eventually the moon made its appearance; fasting would and Eid would begin.
The nest day the streets were awash with beautifully dressed and make-uped little girls and bigger girls and young women and older mothers and grandmothers. And the men were dressed in the clean, new white Djelebas. All clothes are new and the days running up to Eid the streets of Stone Town were full of women bustling back and forth to find the material and get measured and have their new clothes made at any one of the many, many tailors to be found in the city.
The day is spent visiting friends and family and the night is spent eating at the Mnazi Moja market or at Forodhani Gardens. There streets and roads and paths and open areas are full of people.
I didn't get very involved in the first Eid. I'd just arrived on the island and I was working with Jahazi Festival.
And then, about a week and a half ago, I suddenly found out that there was going to be another Eid. And then I found out that in fact this is the biggest celebration in the Muslim calendar. And yet I had never heard of it!
It is called Eid ul Adha, the festival of the sacrifice which marks the end of the Hajj to mecca (that a lot of people take in the days leading up to the festival). It is a celebration of the sacrifice that Abraham was willing to make of his son, and the animal that was eventually sacrificed in his place. So yes there is a lot of slaughtering of animals... which is well, sad.
The times and dates of the festival are again reliant on the moon cycle. There is no month of fasting before, where if you are in Zanzibar (where the majority of the people are Muslin and therefore fast) it means that there is no food, well very very little food, available from when you wake up until 6:30pm. The island seems to carry on as normal before Eid ul Adah. And then suddenly people have new clothes again and much much food is prepared and there is four days of celebration and eating and revelry.
So this time I got involved.
My mom had come to visit me for a week in Zanzibar and she wanted hina done (for all yall westerrrrn folk, henna is actually pronounce hina, and so for this blog, it will be written as such). And on my mom's last full day on the island, while enjoying a fresh, hot, strong espresso cup of coffee in Jaws Corner, who comes to say hello to me? None other than Sada, my 4 year old mate who met me once while I was chatting to her uncle and now remembers my name and knows she get fused when I see her. She had beautiful hina on her hands and so we went immediately to her house (just off of Jaws Corner) and found out that it was her sisters friend who does the designs. So that Afternoon Aisha (Sada's sister) too us to Mahira.
Mahira is an artist. We arrived at a house where we climbed to the roof and in a bare room that I named the hina room, we found women draped in all manner of poses while they waited for the wet paste to dry and stain their skins. Mahira sat in all manner of poses as she wound her designs around and up and over women's bodies. For the whole body is often adorned with hina. Even though a woman's body is covered save for her face and hands, it is quite a beautiful thought that this hina that is put on the body is a beauty accessory that women do for themselves, no matter if the wold can see it.
Sometimes the women chatted, sometimes they didn't. On the rooftop a cool breeze blew through the room. And after maybe an hour it was mine and mothers turn.
Mahira as I said, is an artist. She wore a brown scarf wrapped around her head, not as a hijab (how Muslim women wrap their heads) but as many women in South Africa and other African countries wear a scarf; wrapped over the top and taken to the back and then wound round and round to form a "bun" effect at the back. Mahira wore glasses of the 70's Cadillac style, bejewelled on the sides. She wore a simple loose dress that skimmed over her hips, had a v-cut at the neck and shortish flared sleeves with braiding on the edges. I can't tell you what the original colour of it was (I think natural yellows and browns and the like) because it was COVERED with stains from the hina and piko that she used. Similarly her hands and fingers were stained dark by the dyes.
Now hina is the brown dye that most people are very familiar with. Piko is the black dye that I only learnt of on the island. Piko is actually a regular black hair dye that is mixed and squeezed out into patterns. Mahira sat me down and in under 10 minutes I had beautiful beautiful designs on my hands and feet. My mom only got her feet done.
And then we were instructed very firmly that we HAD to sit still so that it dried and not a drop of it was smudged. We sat and chatted to the women and the young girls (I have to brag and say that it was mostly in kiSwahili!) and then we moved outside and the younger girls, whose task it appeared to be, began peeling off the now dried paste. And once this was done out hands and feet were washed and dried for us.
This took the whole afternoon. Yet another place of the women.
And then on Saturday my mom left and then on Sunday, well it was sikuku time!
Sikuku is what celebration is called, I think it is a Swahili term. Regardless, I received 3 invitations to go to peoples houses.
This is what happens on the day: people wake up and get dressed and the morning is spent visiting friends and drinking litres of chai and eating many, many slices of cake! This is indeed what I did - three cups of spiced chai, 2 slices of cake at one house, 2 slices of cake and three biscuits and a chapati at another. And then two hours later a plate of biriani, and then maybe one hour later some pilau. Good grief!
But apparently this is normal, to eat three breakfasts and up to two lunches. I did feel loved that people invited me to their houses to celebrate with them!
So that is the tale of hima, piko, biriani and sikuku.
This celebrating continued for 4 days. This is indeed the biggest and most important Eid on the Muslim calendar.
Skuku njema!
*Eid means festival
Friday, October 28, 2011
Spartans! Never surrender!
Outside Livingstone's restaurant/bar. The first time I met the Zanzibar Stone Town Crew (performing in this picture: Eddy)
Still outside Livingstone (performing: Abdul)
Some break dancing as well (Abdul and Muhit)
As the sun sets, we do capoeira (Mundir)
And at a festival called Visa 2 Dance, the ZSTC dance againTuesday, October 11, 2011
The Taarab Spell
At 10pm the night if fully dark. There is a moon, and a few stars, but the night is dark and wet. The town is lit electrically by tired yellow lights, and so the darkness remains in the light.
In the Ngome Kongwe (Old Fort), the open ground is lit powerfully and aggressively with large stage lights, colourful and white hot. The stage is huge the the chairs sitting in front seem smaller than they are. As do the people sitting on the stairs. The stage it full to bursting of music players and singers, making the stage seem all the more bigger and the chairs bellow all the more smaller.
All glitters - the men in dark suits and slicked back hair. The women sexy, colourful, cosmopolitan, powerful, flashing their dresses, a leg, with thick and theatrical make-up.
Men are crammed into any open space on the stage, violins, oud, cello, keyboard. The stage is vibrant and very much alive tonight.
A woman begins singing, high and sometimes grating on the ear. Her voice fills the spaces between the music's sometimes unfamiliar beat. The rhythm, the sounds, the women on stage and in front swaying, all create an atmosphere of delightful naughty fun.
People get pulled from their seats, and sway their buttocks' tantalisingly from side to side as they walk and sing towards the music. One lady holds a 10 000/= (Tanzanian shilling) note and as she walks past (supposedly) male friends, she increases her sway and flicks the note over and around their seated bodies. And then she is gone to join the crowd.
They all step to the music; step to the right sway, step to the left, sway. Over and over, hands and arms follow freely, hips move just barely or very energetically. Most are waving their 5 and 10 000/= notes for the singer to lean down and pick coyly from the outstretched hands. All the crowd sing along to the song.
It is a woman's space, I am told later, a place for women on the island to dress up, to sing and dance and be sung about. It is true. While the men play the instruments, the women dance. Sometimes a man joins in with the singing and oh my... his beautiful voice fills the fort with such deep longing. And makes the women blush.
The night is dark. The night is colour. The dresses bright, the make-up thick. The sound familiarly unfamiliar. The nature of sound. This is the space of the woman.
Men are crammed into any open space on the stage, violins, oud, cello, keyboard. The stage is vibrant and very much alive tonight.
A woman begins singing, high and sometimes grating on the ear. Her voice fills the spaces between the music's sometimes unfamiliar beat. The rhythm, the sounds, the women on stage and in front swaying, all create an atmosphere of delightful naughty fun.
People get pulled from their seats, and sway their buttocks' tantalisingly from side to side as they walk and sing towards the music. One lady holds a 10 000/= (Tanzanian shilling) note and as she walks past (supposedly) male friends, she increases her sway and flicks the note over and around their seated bodies. And then she is gone to join the crowd.
They all step to the music; step to the right sway, step to the left, sway. Over and over, hands and arms follow freely, hips move just barely or very energetically. Most are waving their 5 and 10 000/= notes for the singer to lean down and pick coyly from the outstretched hands. All the crowd sing along to the song.
It is a woman's space, I am told later, a place for women on the island to dress up, to sing and dance and be sung about. It is true. While the men play the instruments, the women dance. Sometimes a man joins in with the singing and oh my... his beautiful voice fills the fort with such deep longing. And makes the women blush.
The night is dark. The night is colour. The dresses bright, the make-up thick. The sound familiarly unfamiliar. The nature of sound. This is the space of the woman.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Muonja asali, haouji mara moja
On the fourth of October, I returned to Zanzibar one last time.
After leaving Zanzibar I went to Bagamoyo (1 hour north of Dar es Salaam); saw the biggest arts festival in East Africa; decided to go back to Dar; half way through the 1 hour bus trip, I decided to go to Zanzibar and learn the djembe drum at the music college; when I arrived in Dar I decided first to buy a ticket to take a 9 hour bus trip to Arusha, the official half way point between the Cape to Cairo trip; arrived in Arusha after a 15 hour trip due to the bus breaking down 4 times; found two British med students and at 9pm at night, when we arrived, went to Ujamaa Backpackers with them; ate left over mashed potato for supper and never tasted anything nicer after not eating much all day; spent the next day in glorious rain and coolness, taking pictures of the half way monument mark; took the late bus back to Dar the next day and arrived at 10pm; the next day bought my ferry ticket back to Zanzibar and was on the ferry by 12 noon; dosed on a couch, in the cool cabin room, listening to my music and being rocked by the sea; met the nephew of the owner of the ferry; arrived at about half passed three in the afternoon; was a registered student at the Dhow Countries Music Academy by 4:30pm.
And now here I sit, in my regular internet cafe. I see the familiarity of my places, and I still enjoy the new discoveries that I find each day. Fatma no longer (or at least rarely) calls me Khadija anymore. I now hear a "Hey! Lauren, mambo Lauren!"
Ninarudi hapa eZanzibar.
There is a swahili/Zanzibari quote that says: once you dip your finger in the honey, you go back for more - "Muonja asali, haouji mara moja"
On the bus I sat next to a newly graduated doctor who works in Moshi (near Arusha). She told me that it is nearly Diwali, the Hindu celebration of lights.
After leaving Zanzibar I went to Bagamoyo (1 hour north of Dar es Salaam); saw the biggest arts festival in East Africa; decided to go back to Dar; half way through the 1 hour bus trip, I decided to go to Zanzibar and learn the djembe drum at the music college; when I arrived in Dar I decided first to buy a ticket to take a 9 hour bus trip to Arusha, the official half way point between the Cape to Cairo trip; arrived in Arusha after a 15 hour trip due to the bus breaking down 4 times; found two British med students and at 9pm at night, when we arrived, went to Ujamaa Backpackers with them; ate left over mashed potato for supper and never tasted anything nicer after not eating much all day; spent the next day in glorious rain and coolness, taking pictures of the half way monument mark; took the late bus back to Dar the next day and arrived at 10pm; the next day bought my ferry ticket back to Zanzibar and was on the ferry by 12 noon; dosed on a couch, in the cool cabin room, listening to my music and being rocked by the sea; met the nephew of the owner of the ferry; arrived at about half passed three in the afternoon; was a registered student at the Dhow Countries Music Academy by 4:30pm.
And now here I sit, in my regular internet cafe. I see the familiarity of my places, and I still enjoy the new discoveries that I find each day. Fatma no longer (or at least rarely) calls me Khadija anymore. I now hear a "Hey! Lauren, mambo Lauren!"
Ninarudi hapa eZanzibar.
There is a swahili/Zanzibari quote that says: once you dip your finger in the honey, you go back for more - "Muonja asali, haouji mara moja"
On the bus I sat next to a newly graduated doctor who works in Moshi (near Arusha). She told me that it is nearly Diwali, the Hindu celebration of lights.
The Story Of Diwali
There were once three brothers, sons of the king, from three different wives. When each son was born the king told each wife that she could have any wish that she wants. The wife of the second born son asked the king if she could have her wish later and he agreed. When the elder son came close to getting the throne, the mother of the second born son went to the king and asked for her wish. Her wish was that her son and not the eldest son, Rama, get the throne. The king tried to change her mind but as he has to fulfill this promise, he banishes Rama and Rama's wife, Sita, to the forest for 14 years. The second born son however, refuses to take his brothers place and so agrees to rule the kingdom until Rama returns. But the brother never sits on Rama's throne, he rules the kingdom from a chair next to the throne.
While in the forest, Rama gets spiritual guidance and is told that he will have to defeat a bad spirit. This spirit is going to kidnap Sita. Sita, however, knows about this and so asks the Spirit of the Earth to take her soul back into the ground, to look after it, so that it is only her body that is taken. So this takes place. Rama eventually defeats the evil spirit, and this happens at the end of his 14 year banishment. Rama and Sita, who has her soul back, return to the kingdom and Rama takes up his position of ruler of the kingdom.
Every year, people light oil lamps to guide Rama and Sita back home.
There were once three brothers, sons of the king, from three different wives. When each son was born the king told each wife that she could have any wish that she wants. The wife of the second born son asked the king if she could have her wish later and he agreed. When the elder son came close to getting the throne, the mother of the second born son went to the king and asked for her wish. Her wish was that her son and not the eldest son, Rama, get the throne. The king tried to change her mind but as he has to fulfill this promise, he banishes Rama and Rama's wife, Sita, to the forest for 14 years. The second born son however, refuses to take his brothers place and so agrees to rule the kingdom until Rama returns. But the brother never sits on Rama's throne, he rules the kingdom from a chair next to the throne.
While in the forest, Rama gets spiritual guidance and is told that he will have to defeat a bad spirit. This spirit is going to kidnap Sita. Sita, however, knows about this and so asks the Spirit of the Earth to take her soul back into the ground, to look after it, so that it is only her body that is taken. So this takes place. Rama eventually defeats the evil spirit, and this happens at the end of his 14 year banishment. Rama and Sita, who has her soul back, return to the kingdom and Rama takes up his position of ruler of the kingdom.
Every year, people light oil lamps to guide Rama and Sita back home.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Writing Zanzibar
One of the local score boards In Stone Town for all the football matches that captivates most of the world. Near Darajani vegetable, spice and food market.
Near the Seyyida hotel, in Stone Town. I love the contrast and the collision of the ancient and the contemporary art.
One of many black board notice boards throughout Stone Town, on which anyone can write anything (as long as it is not offensive). This notice reads: We do not want a Union; it is not serving us. (Tensions between the mainland and Zanzibar is rife - according to Zanzibaris, all that Zanzibar is - what she makes, such as spices, clove oil etc - is taken to the mainland, used there and exported from there and little of the profit makes its way back to Zanzibar). Covert political opposition in its prime! This board in in Jaws Corner, the liveliest of squares in Stone Town due to its bustling street side coffee bazara, its central location to watch football matches and also close to tour companies and internet cafes. The notices here get noticed.Saturday, September 24, 2011
Anna do = published online
Hi all, please click on the link, click on the title of this blog post, and see my first online "publication". With thanks to Lisa for making the publication possible. And with thanks to Aisha Gothey for providing the written form of the rhyme!
Thus is the law of the writer, and the child.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Anna anna anna do!
I thought to add some fun anecdotes from children whom I have met in Zanzibar:
Fatma, a young girl in an adjacent alley way to the one in which I live, is the salesperson for her mom's chapatis. They sell fresh chapatis (as do at least half of the women in Zanzibar) every day, on the side of the, well road would be an over statement, on the side of the alley way. She is spunky and young and oh so funny to talk to, even though I speak kidogo (a little bit of) kiSwahili and she speaks no kidogo kidogo English.
She could never remember my name so I decided I was going to be called Khadija (Pronounce Hadija, but when you say the Kh sound, give it a bit of a phlegm-y growl in the back of your throat). Now I hear, most evenings when I walk past, "Khadija, mambo vipi?" (howzit, how are ya?) "Mambo poa! Habari za leo?" (I'm good/sweet/fine. How has your day been?) I reply to her. And then, these last few evenings there have been no chapatis, only and then I put my hands on my hips and ask "chapati waphi?" (where are the chapatis?) and she laughs a loud, confident laugh and says "Hamna chapati!" (No chapati). We're mates, us two.
The alley ways of Stone town are fantastic (and really, I mean FAN-TAS-TIC) to play hide a seek in. You needn't even try to hide, you get lost if you daydream for but a moment. But none-the-less, the children play hide and seek. A lot. And this is the little song that they use to choose who is going to be on (it's like Eenie, meenie, miney, moe), and it's in nonsense swahili:
Thus is the law of the children.
Fatma, a young girl in an adjacent alley way to the one in which I live, is the salesperson for her mom's chapatis. They sell fresh chapatis (as do at least half of the women in Zanzibar) every day, on the side of the, well road would be an over statement, on the side of the alley way. She is spunky and young and oh so funny to talk to, even though I speak kidogo (a little bit of) kiSwahili and she speaks no kidogo kidogo English.
She could never remember my name so I decided I was going to be called Khadija (Pronounce Hadija, but when you say the Kh sound, give it a bit of a phlegm-y growl in the back of your throat). Now I hear, most evenings when I walk past, "Khadija, mambo vipi?" (howzit, how are ya?) "Mambo poa! Habari za leo?" (I'm good/sweet/fine. How has your day been?) I reply to her. And then, these last few evenings there have been no chapatis, only and then I put my hands on my hips and ask "chapati waphi?" (where are the chapatis?) and she laughs a loud, confident laugh and says "Hamna chapati!" (No chapati). We're mates, us two.
*
The alley ways of Stone town are fantastic (and really, I mean FAN-TAS-TIC) to play hide a seek in. You needn't even try to hide, you get lost if you daydream for but a moment. But none-the-less, the children play hide and seek. A lot. And this is the little song that they use to choose who is going to be on (it's like Eenie, meenie, miney, moe), and it's in nonsense swahili:
Anna anna anna do,
kachanike basto,
ispiringi mitido,
anna kwa, anna kwa,
duku duku lemba kwa fuus!
kachanike basto,
ispiringi mitido,
anna kwa, anna kwa,
duku duku lemba kwa fuus!
Thus is the law of the children.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Lingerie shopping in Zanzibar
Now who'd have ever though that this would happen in Zanzibar. Lauren, in all her ripped jeans and old t-shirt glory, strolling through the very muddy streets of Darajani, holding up panties and bra's in search of vaguely matching black nickers and bra. The reason? Well, I am not allowed to tell yet, it is a surprise. In a few weeks time the reason for such a shopping expedition will be revealed. It is nothing saucy or down right gross. But I just can't tell you right now.
So back to the topic at hand. Underwear shopping.
It is not like an experience anywhere else.
Issue 1: all shops, wait, correction, most shops on the island are owned/managed my men. All underwear shops are owned/managed, it seems, by men... sigh...
Issue 2: there is one thing lacking in Zanzibar. Manners. Of men. Towards foreign women.
Please pause for a rant. No matter what you wear, whether you expose your shoulder and knees, or cover them up, young men on the island still treat you like a common whore. So now I pretty much wear what I want. Modestly. But I do still cover up a lot of the time, in solidarity with the women who need to cope with the heat, while covering in many layers. End of rant.
Issue 3: The stalls are in the open.
Now most of you know that I am not a shy person. While it is a bit disconcerting to have to flash around lacy nickers in the public (conservative) eye, it really can be done.
Except every time I walked up to a stall (except one owned by a dear old man), the silly hormonal and rude men would saunter up and begin helping your to choose your own underwear. Ai...
I told most to **** off (not the F word, but similar sentiments). Suffice to say I was hot and bothered by the time I left the swarming muddy mess that is Darajani (after a hard rain storm). And I had no undies (there are no black bras in Zanzibar...)
Two funny anecdotes:
At one stall, while browsing through the black nicker options, the owner brought out this (granny pantie style) beige one, signally that this was my skin colour, not black. The more I insisted I wanted black, the more he insisted that I was wrong that I needed (frilly, embroidered, thick-as-hell) beige high waisted nickers...
The second, at another stall, the owner asked if I wanted "bikini". So if the nickers were high waited (this is for the men reading this blog), as women, we know that bikini is low cut. 20 seconds later out he swung bright red and green and black THONGS, waving them in front of me, asking if the size is right, if I want smaller. And no matter how much I waved me hand and said "Hapana, hapana" (no, no), he still insisted, "another colour...??"
You gotta love Zanzibar... Ai, but the men.... This is for another post...
So keep glued to this amazing, Spectacular Spectacular blog. And the reason for the Lingerie shopping will be shown.
Baadaye
So back to the topic at hand. Underwear shopping.
It is not like an experience anywhere else.
Issue 1: all shops, wait, correction, most shops on the island are owned/managed my men. All underwear shops are owned/managed, it seems, by men... sigh...
Issue 2: there is one thing lacking in Zanzibar. Manners. Of men. Towards foreign women.
Please pause for a rant. No matter what you wear, whether you expose your shoulder and knees, or cover them up, young men on the island still treat you like a common whore. So now I pretty much wear what I want. Modestly. But I do still cover up a lot of the time, in solidarity with the women who need to cope with the heat, while covering in many layers. End of rant.
Issue 3: The stalls are in the open.
Now most of you know that I am not a shy person. While it is a bit disconcerting to have to flash around lacy nickers in the public (conservative) eye, it really can be done.
Except every time I walked up to a stall (except one owned by a dear old man), the silly hormonal and rude men would saunter up and begin helping your to choose your own underwear. Ai...
I told most to **** off (not the F word, but similar sentiments). Suffice to say I was hot and bothered by the time I left the swarming muddy mess that is Darajani (after a hard rain storm). And I had no undies (there are no black bras in Zanzibar...)
Two funny anecdotes:
At one stall, while browsing through the black nicker options, the owner brought out this (granny pantie style) beige one, signally that this was my skin colour, not black. The more I insisted I wanted black, the more he insisted that I was wrong that I needed (frilly, embroidered, thick-as-hell) beige high waisted nickers...
The second, at another stall, the owner asked if I wanted "bikini". So if the nickers were high waited (this is for the men reading this blog), as women, we know that bikini is low cut. 20 seconds later out he swung bright red and green and black THONGS, waving them in front of me, asking if the size is right, if I want smaller. And no matter how much I waved me hand and said "Hapana, hapana" (no, no), he still insisted, "another colour...??"
You gotta love Zanzibar... Ai, but the men.... This is for another post...
So keep glued to this amazing, Spectacular Spectacular blog. And the reason for the Lingerie shopping will be shown.
Baadaye
Friday, September 16, 2011
The Wheelbarrow deal
Hello all my avid fans, this is a quick post, thank you to all who were able to donate money to the wheelbarrow fund and thank you to those who couldn't for some reason but wanted to none the less. I loved it that people were so generous in thought, time and money. Before things are finalised I want to ask if those who deposited money please send me an email (africanstorygatherer@gmail.com) because I dont know who all did the depositing and because I want to send a list of contributers to NGP.
Th-U-nks guys!
Th-U-nks guys!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Travel friends
I thought it about time to write about the friends I have made while travelling.
In Mozambique I met Hanna, Myles and Jess. Hanna is Finnish, Myles Brittish and Jess American. Jess and Myles are one lovely couple. We clicked, us four, and spent a happy plus-minus week travelling from Maputo to Toto to Inhambane (remember pronounced N-yam-ban-e) and finally to Vilankulo. Jess is an amazing teller of stories and we would inevitably be left giggling after one of her many stories about everyday life that ended up being like a gripping 2 minute movie. Myles is just as funny, and would have us giggling at his stories of living in England and Nairobi and then going to study abroad and then applying for a foreign exchange semester to go back to Nairobi to spend time with his friends. And one thing he always warned us about:
REMEMBER THAT PEOPLE AT HOME WILL NEVER BE THAT INTERESTED IN LOOKING AT ALL OF YOUR TRAVEL PHOTOS.
Hanna and I spent many happy lazy hours on the deck chairs in Toto sharing a couple of 2M beers and crunching on slightly burnt carstanias (cashews, coal roasted and salted). And spent many hours swimming in the waves or walking through the markets.
And then we parted and it was sad but I soon came to learn that travelling friends are intense and for a short period of time and just a lot of fun.
In Nkhata Bay I met Amy, Kwame (not travelling, from Nkhata Bay/Mzuzu) and Sari and we hit it off - my Butterfly friends. We formed the Dreadlocked Mermaid intercontinental gang, including Viola, Emily and Cat. This idea was concieved on one lake swim when I climbed onto a rock that angled out of the water, and while sitting on the rock in a 'mermaid pose' I declared myself a mermaid, a dreadlocked mermaid and invited Sari, a fellow dreadlocker to join me. And then I told the others that they must join as well. We may sound like a cheap 90s pop band...
Also at Butterfly, I met Matt. And Sarah and Liam (the Irish people). Matt and the Irish people and I were going to travel in a train carriage together from Mbeya to Dar es Salaam. Liam came down with Malaria however and so Nemone took one of their tickets. Matt, Nemone and I. We bonded in out 15 hour train station floor sleep and then our 24 hours train ride to Dar. We bonded lke no one can understand. In those almost 48 hours we developed a friendship like no other. Matt looked after Nem and I so well. In Zanzibar we all met up again and well, there is something about having shared those expeience that have made us comfotable and happy in each others company. Matt left about a week ago and Nem left 3 days ago. How sad that they have left my life, for now.
My Irish people, they too left a while ago and it was sad, no longer waking up to them in my house. We lived in the same house, renting rooms. We were a big bussling group: Me, Matt, Nemone, Sarah, Liam, Dulla (Zanzibar), Faisl (Zanzibar), Matthias, Sean, Robyn, Kati. And one by one they left - Matthias, Sarah, Liam. Matt. Sean. Namone. Kati.
Friends come and go and it is bitter sweet meeting and leaving the lovely people behind each time you move (or stay as in my case, with everyone leaving Zanzibar). But we always exchange email addresses and should anyone find themselves in the home place of the many friends, you always know you will have a place to stay. This is life, changing and moving. And it is a wonderful lesson to learn that nothing in life in constant, that this too will change. And it is important to live in the present. All the time. And enjoy the people while they are here with you. What fantastic, special and beautiful experiences I have had!!! I am blessed.
In closing, there was a horrific ferry accident off the coast of northern Zanzibar, traveling to Pemba. There were many people returning to Pemba after Eid celebrations in Zanzibar. There should have been 600 people on board. There were 800-1 000 people on board. There may have been more. Because the ferry was over loaded and there was no proper documentation of how many people went on board, there is no recod of the people who may still be missing. Reports vary, but it seems up to, close to and over 200 people died.
Dulla lost his sister on that ferry. My friend was broken on Saturday. I borrow a translation that I found on another blog. It is a sign that appeared somewhere in the island. It is somber but beautiful as well.
Brothers and Sisters of the islands of Unguja and Pemba: This is an announcement of the deaths that took place today there in the ocean because of the sinking of MV Spice — it is already down, nothing more will come out. God bless the dead and give them a good place in heaven. They have already passed, we are going the same way.
(http://blog.contrarymagazine.com/2011/09/notes-on-a-zanzibar-tragedy/#.Tmx2hzJGgJE.facebook)
In Mozambique I met Hanna, Myles and Jess. Hanna is Finnish, Myles Brittish and Jess American. Jess and Myles are one lovely couple. We clicked, us four, and spent a happy plus-minus week travelling from Maputo to Toto to Inhambane (remember pronounced N-yam-ban-e) and finally to Vilankulo. Jess is an amazing teller of stories and we would inevitably be left giggling after one of her many stories about everyday life that ended up being like a gripping 2 minute movie. Myles is just as funny, and would have us giggling at his stories of living in England and Nairobi and then going to study abroad and then applying for a foreign exchange semester to go back to Nairobi to spend time with his friends. And one thing he always warned us about:
REMEMBER THAT PEOPLE AT HOME WILL NEVER BE THAT INTERESTED IN LOOKING AT ALL OF YOUR TRAVEL PHOTOS.
Hanna and I spent many happy lazy hours on the deck chairs in Toto sharing a couple of 2M beers and crunching on slightly burnt carstanias (cashews, coal roasted and salted). And spent many hours swimming in the waves or walking through the markets.
And then we parted and it was sad but I soon came to learn that travelling friends are intense and for a short period of time and just a lot of fun.
In Nkhata Bay I met Amy, Kwame (not travelling, from Nkhata Bay/Mzuzu) and Sari and we hit it off - my Butterfly friends. We formed the Dreadlocked Mermaid intercontinental gang, including Viola, Emily and Cat. This idea was concieved on one lake swim when I climbed onto a rock that angled out of the water, and while sitting on the rock in a 'mermaid pose' I declared myself a mermaid, a dreadlocked mermaid and invited Sari, a fellow dreadlocker to join me. And then I told the others that they must join as well. We may sound like a cheap 90s pop band...
Also at Butterfly, I met Matt. And Sarah and Liam (the Irish people). Matt and the Irish people and I were going to travel in a train carriage together from Mbeya to Dar es Salaam. Liam came down with Malaria however and so Nemone took one of their tickets. Matt, Nemone and I. We bonded in out 15 hour train station floor sleep and then our 24 hours train ride to Dar. We bonded lke no one can understand. In those almost 48 hours we developed a friendship like no other. Matt looked after Nem and I so well. In Zanzibar we all met up again and well, there is something about having shared those expeience that have made us comfotable and happy in each others company. Matt left about a week ago and Nem left 3 days ago. How sad that they have left my life, for now.
My Irish people, they too left a while ago and it was sad, no longer waking up to them in my house. We lived in the same house, renting rooms. We were a big bussling group: Me, Matt, Nemone, Sarah, Liam, Dulla (Zanzibar), Faisl (Zanzibar), Matthias, Sean, Robyn, Kati. And one by one they left - Matthias, Sarah, Liam. Matt. Sean. Namone. Kati.
Friends come and go and it is bitter sweet meeting and leaving the lovely people behind each time you move (or stay as in my case, with everyone leaving Zanzibar). But we always exchange email addresses and should anyone find themselves in the home place of the many friends, you always know you will have a place to stay. This is life, changing and moving. And it is a wonderful lesson to learn that nothing in life in constant, that this too will change. And it is important to live in the present. All the time. And enjoy the people while they are here with you. What fantastic, special and beautiful experiences I have had!!! I am blessed.
In closing, there was a horrific ferry accident off the coast of northern Zanzibar, traveling to Pemba. There were many people returning to Pemba after Eid celebrations in Zanzibar. There should have been 600 people on board. There were 800-1 000 people on board. There may have been more. Because the ferry was over loaded and there was no proper documentation of how many people went on board, there is no recod of the people who may still be missing. Reports vary, but it seems up to, close to and over 200 people died.
Dulla lost his sister on that ferry. My friend was broken on Saturday. I borrow a translation that I found on another blog. It is a sign that appeared somewhere in the island. It is somber but beautiful as well.
Brothers and Sisters of the islands of Unguja and Pemba: This is an announcement of the deaths that took place today there in the ocean because of the sinking of MV Spice — it is already down, nothing more will come out. God bless the dead and give them a good place in heaven. They have already passed, we are going the same way.
(http://blog.contrarymagazine.com/2011/09/notes-on-a-zanzibar-tragedy/#.Tmx2hzJGgJE.facebook)
Monday, September 5, 2011
Zanzibar, the land of contrasts
The image that will always stay with me of Zanzibar was at the airport. If for some reason I lose all forms of memory recall of my travels, I will not lose this one. I wish I had had my camera out and ready to snap the situation. But alas, it was not. And so in lack of picture, I resort to descriptive language.
The Zanzibar airport is tiny. International, but tiny. And so the collectors-of-passengers stand outside. And as with all airports there is a security guard posted outside. At one point in my time standing outside there was a young man who had either set off an alarm detector coming out of the airport or wanted to enter through the exit. In either case, he had to be frisked and then have a metal detector run over his whole body. And so this happened.
He stood with his legs apart and his arms up in a “hands up, you are under arrest” position, as a woman, the security guard, frisked and then metal detector-ed him. And what was amusing about this? She was dressed in full Muslim regalia, long black dress, long sleeved in the melting heat, head scarf, everything minus the burqa. With her official security guard name tag. Totally more important than this man in front of her.
And it made me giggle inside and then hope that the position of the woman within Muslim worlds is in fact getting better. Islam does have a bad name, a bad stereotypical name, much true and false about it. Maybe Zanzibar is setting the standard for Muslim woman around the world?
T.I.A. This is Africa. The Land of contrasts.
The inside of a dala dala, Tanzania's equivalent of a taxi/chappa/minibus taxi. In Zanzibar however, it is an open sided pick up truck.
The Zanzibar airport is tiny. International, but tiny. And so the collectors-of-passengers stand outside. And as with all airports there is a security guard posted outside. At one point in my time standing outside there was a young man who had either set off an alarm detector coming out of the airport or wanted to enter through the exit. In either case, he had to be frisked and then have a metal detector run over his whole body. And so this happened.
He stood with his legs apart and his arms up in a “hands up, you are under arrest” position, as a woman, the security guard, frisked and then metal detector-ed him. And what was amusing about this? She was dressed in full Muslim regalia, long black dress, long sleeved in the melting heat, head scarf, everything minus the burqa. With her official security guard name tag. Totally more important than this man in front of her.
And it made me giggle inside and then hope that the position of the woman within Muslim worlds is in fact getting better. Islam does have a bad name, a bad stereotypical name, much true and false about it. Maybe Zanzibar is setting the standard for Muslim woman around the world?
T.I.A. This is Africa. The Land of contrasts.
The inside of a dala dala, Tanzania's equivalent of a taxi/chappa/minibus taxi. In Zanzibar however, it is an open sided pick up truck.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
LET US PRAY!
I JUST HAD TO SHARE THIS. THIS IS HOW, EACH BREAK TIME AT GULUGUFE NURSERY SCHOOL, THE CHILDREN WOULD PRAY BEFORE EATING. THIS WAS FILMED AT THEIR OUTING TO THE BEACH, ON THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. THE FUNNIEST PART I DIDN'T MANAGE TO CATCH ON CAMERA. THE TEACHER BEGINS BY SAYING "LET US PRAY" AFTER WHICH THE CHILDREN CONTINUE. THE TEACHR BEGAN. BUT SOME OF THE CHILDREN WERE MESSING ABOUT A FEW METRES AWAY. WHEN THEY HEARD THE TEACHER BEGIN THEY DROPPED EVERYTHING AND TURNED AND RAN TOWARDS US, WITH THEIR EYES ALREADY SHUT TIGHT FOR GRACE, SHOUTING ALONG WITH THE REST OF THE CHILREN. I AM WRITING IN CAPLOCK BECAUSE IT IS APPROPRIATE FOR THE LOUD CHILDREN. ENJOY!
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tazara Railway
This is the train that links Zambia (some place) to Dar es Salam, Tanzania.
This is the train that I took. I caught it in Mbeya, the border town of Tanzania.
This is the story about Lauren and the train.
Departure time: Wednesday at 2pm.
On Tuesday night I started getting sick. Nauseous. Achy. I was nervous. Two people in the last week, whom I had known, had come down with malaria. I slept early and awoke a bit nauseous but fine.
Matt, my travelling companion whom I met in Nkhata bay and whom had bought my ticket in advance, and I got on a dala dala (a minibus taxi/chappa) at about 12:24 and arrived at the t\station at about 1pm. We met another group of wazungu (white people/tourists/foreigners) and they told us they had been told that the train was delayed until 4pm. We settled down. I was feeling fragile. I dozed on the train bench.
Then a few more wazungu strolled by to tell us that they'd heard a little birdie say it was delayed until 5pm. Ah, we thought, that is okay.
A few minutes later an official chalk board was brought out with an apology (Pole) that the train was delayed until 7pm. Ah, officially we knew when we were going to leave.
7pm came and went.
At about 8pm the chalk board was put away.
We waited.
By this time I was feeling pretty horrible. I was nauseous and sore (pole). People started bedding down for the night. I unrolled my sleeping mat (thank you Aunty Pam), put on my seriously warm jacket and pillowed my head with my tent. I took a pain killer, pulled my handbag and backpack in close to me and thought, okay, this is okay, I can wait out the train for a few more hours.
I dosed off in a haze of nausea and music in my ears.
Suddenly there was excitement. Oh God, the train was coming. I flew up, rolled up, packed up. Then we were told it was a false alarm. Pole.
I was pretty low by then. The toilets were revolting by now. The train was 10 hours late.
I couldn't sleep. Eventually I tossed fitfully from 1.30 until 3. My lowest was 3-3.30. The train station was filled with people sprawled everywhere. We looked like refugees. The train station by now stank of toilet. Which did nothing for my stomach.
But then...
At about 3.45 I heard a.. sound. A sound that may very possibly have been a very far distant train hoot. But then I heard it again and I realised it was the toilet door. I watched a man sitting opposite me and he seemed to be... watching. I heard the sound again.
This time I sat up. I was trying not to hope.
And then we heard a man say and train and oh God we couldn't believe our ears. We packed and rolled and held onto each other so that we wouldn't loose the other (It was supposed to be Matt, an Irish couple and myself. The Irish couple did not turn up, as we later learnt they had been hit by severe viral bugs. So one of the tickets went to another singleton traveller whom we met at the station, Nemome).
Matt, then Nemone, then me. Hobbling out to the platform.
We were broken by then. A hard floor, a cold hard floor, noise and false hope. It was all I could do to hold myself up with my backpack and my handbag hanging off me. It was 4.15am.
Thank God for Matt. He made us laugh and generally kept our spirits up. I'd have left long before if it had not been for him. Nemone agrees.
At 4.25am the train lights shone on us for the first time. We shuffled to the first class compartments (R140) and Nemone and I had to be pulled up, so exhausted were we.
At 5am we lay down in out beds and the train shunted forward to begin our trip to Dar.
The end?
No.
At 7.30 (after waking 3 times at each stop) I woke up shivering so hard that I couldn't keep my teeth still. This is it, I thought, Malaria. I am going to die on this train. I roused Nemone and she put all my warn stuff on me. I fell asleep only to awake at about 10ish drenched in sweat. I peeled everything off again and slept until 11.30.
I awoke feeling fragile. But alive. This lasted briefly. Then began the proper meaty part of travellers diarrohea. I shall leave it at that. And the closest toilet was in the next carriage (the only in ours was for wee-wee only, said the dragon lady-in-charge of our cabin, who waved dirty mops at us and guarded the toilet).
Thank, thank thank the sweet God for giving me Matt and Nemone as my travel companions. They spoke to me, assured me that I would get passed this. And they made sure that I had a steady supply of Ginger Nut biscuits, the only thing that I could stomach for 36 hours.
On Friday morning at 6am we arrived in Dar es Salam. Staggering and still not really believing that this "adventure" had terminated in its proper place, we fell out the carriage and made out way to a taxi. Matt and Nemone helped me get to the place where we were staying. They bought me water.
It is now Saturday and the first day that I feel vaguely human again. I didn't get to experience the restaurant cart on the train, or see the views.
But thank God for travelling companions!
This is the train that I took. I caught it in Mbeya, the border town of Tanzania.
This is the story about Lauren and the train.
Departure time: Wednesday at 2pm.
On Tuesday night I started getting sick. Nauseous. Achy. I was nervous. Two people in the last week, whom I had known, had come down with malaria. I slept early and awoke a bit nauseous but fine.
Matt, my travelling companion whom I met in Nkhata bay and whom had bought my ticket in advance, and I got on a dala dala (a minibus taxi/chappa) at about 12:24 and arrived at the t\station at about 1pm. We met another group of wazungu (white people/tourists/foreigners) and they told us they had been told that the train was delayed until 4pm. We settled down. I was feeling fragile. I dozed on the train bench.
Then a few more wazungu strolled by to tell us that they'd heard a little birdie say it was delayed until 5pm. Ah, we thought, that is okay.
A few minutes later an official chalk board was brought out with an apology (Pole) that the train was delayed until 7pm. Ah, officially we knew when we were going to leave.
7pm came and went.
At about 8pm the chalk board was put away.
We waited.
By this time I was feeling pretty horrible. I was nauseous and sore (pole). People started bedding down for the night. I unrolled my sleeping mat (thank you Aunty Pam), put on my seriously warm jacket and pillowed my head with my tent. I took a pain killer, pulled my handbag and backpack in close to me and thought, okay, this is okay, I can wait out the train for a few more hours.
I dosed off in a haze of nausea and music in my ears.
Suddenly there was excitement. Oh God, the train was coming. I flew up, rolled up, packed up. Then we were told it was a false alarm. Pole.
I was pretty low by then. The toilets were revolting by now. The train was 10 hours late.
I couldn't sleep. Eventually I tossed fitfully from 1.30 until 3. My lowest was 3-3.30. The train station was filled with people sprawled everywhere. We looked like refugees. The train station by now stank of toilet. Which did nothing for my stomach.
But then...
At about 3.45 I heard a.. sound. A sound that may very possibly have been a very far distant train hoot. But then I heard it again and I realised it was the toilet door. I watched a man sitting opposite me and he seemed to be... watching. I heard the sound again.
This time I sat up. I was trying not to hope.
And then we heard a man say and train and oh God we couldn't believe our ears. We packed and rolled and held onto each other so that we wouldn't loose the other (It was supposed to be Matt, an Irish couple and myself. The Irish couple did not turn up, as we later learnt they had been hit by severe viral bugs. So one of the tickets went to another singleton traveller whom we met at the station, Nemome).
Matt, then Nemone, then me. Hobbling out to the platform.
We were broken by then. A hard floor, a cold hard floor, noise and false hope. It was all I could do to hold myself up with my backpack and my handbag hanging off me. It was 4.15am.
Thank God for Matt. He made us laugh and generally kept our spirits up. I'd have left long before if it had not been for him. Nemone agrees.
At 4.25am the train lights shone on us for the first time. We shuffled to the first class compartments (R140) and Nemone and I had to be pulled up, so exhausted were we.
At 5am we lay down in out beds and the train shunted forward to begin our trip to Dar.
The end?
No.
At 7.30 (after waking 3 times at each stop) I woke up shivering so hard that I couldn't keep my teeth still. This is it, I thought, Malaria. I am going to die on this train. I roused Nemone and she put all my warn stuff on me. I fell asleep only to awake at about 10ish drenched in sweat. I peeled everything off again and slept until 11.30.
I awoke feeling fragile. But alive. This lasted briefly. Then began the proper meaty part of travellers diarrohea. I shall leave it at that. And the closest toilet was in the next carriage (the only in ours was for wee-wee only, said the dragon lady-in-charge of our cabin, who waved dirty mops at us and guarded the toilet).
Thank, thank thank the sweet God for giving me Matt and Nemone as my travel companions. They spoke to me, assured me that I would get passed this. And they made sure that I had a steady supply of Ginger Nut biscuits, the only thing that I could stomach for 36 hours.
On Friday morning at 6am we arrived in Dar es Salam. Staggering and still not really believing that this "adventure" had terminated in its proper place, we fell out the carriage and made out way to a taxi. Matt and Nemone helped me get to the place where we were staying. They bought me water.
It is now Saturday and the first day that I feel vaguely human again. I didn't get to experience the restaurant cart on the train, or see the views.
But thank God for travelling companions!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Manzi, madzi, maji
I thought that I might do a bit of a linguistic exploration...
...with the word water. In isiXhosa the word for water is amanzi. In chichewa the is word for water is amadzi (commonly said as madzi). In swahili, the word for water is maji.
I am sure you now see similarities. Xhosa is classified (along with several other languages such as Zulu, Sotho, Shona, Chichewa) as a Bantu language. Now for a bit of interesting info. Swahili is not the "original", "traditional" language of the Swahili coast (Northern Mozambique up until Southern Somalia). It is a mixture of the multitude of Bantu languages that used to exist in these areas, with Arabic. This is why I do not like the word traditional. What was traditional 50 years ago may not have been traditional 150 years ago.
In my third year when studying African Languages we discussed the issue of creating standardised languages that all people in a country can learn in. In South African we have 11 official languages but English still retains the highest prestige. The solution that we came up with (yes, us few people who want to change the world!) was that we needn't drop the status of English (it is after all the world wide language of... everything). We just ned to ensue that the other languages are elevated to the same level. So that if Sotho is you home language you do in fact have the option of learning in your mother tongue as well as English.
My lecturer then pointed out Tanzania and the University of Dar es Salam. One the the biggest obstacles in RSA tertiary education institutions is that students who have not gone fantastic English first language schools or indeed have but have received a substandard education is English terminology, struggle to grasp subject specific jargon at University. My lecturer pointed to the fact that if you want to study at the University of Dar, you need to be fluent in both English and Swahili. Which is great, elevating the local language as well as the international language. In South Africa we only have English Universities (with a few offering Afrikaans credits).
But then there is the fact that Swahili has in fact wiped out local dialects and languages. So is Swahili really local?
It is an interesting topic and one that can be argued round and round.
So back to the topic of similarities.
In Xhosa, when the speaker wants to refer to being in something, going to something/somewhere, or is already at the place, you need to add a "-ni" at the end. Therefore, to say "in/at/to the water" you would say e-manzi-ni (the 'e' replaces the 'a' so amanzi becomes emanzini).
This is the same in Sawhili. To say in/at/to the water, you say: "majini".
I am sure the same applies for Chichewa.
Madzi amphunga
- rice
- water
- salt
- sugar
1. in a pot put in the rice that you will be cooking for your meal. Add water, but add more than what you would usually use to cook the rice. We need excess water for Madzi amphunga. Add salt to taste
2. bring rice to boil and cook for about 5-7 minutes (not until the rice is fully cooked - it can be 10 minutes, but rice must still need to cook more)
3. at your chosen time, pour off most of the excess water into a container big enough to hold the water.
4. return rice to heat and finish cooking. We are finished with the rice. Now we turn to the Madzi (the water)
5. the water will be white and starchy. To this add sugar to taste. The water is not meant to be very sweet. The small amount of salt and sugar bring the taste out.
6. i prefer this drink warm to hot but some people drink it cold.
7. honey can be substituted for sugar
(Malawian recipes)
...with the word water. In isiXhosa the word for water is amanzi. In chichewa the is word for water is amadzi (commonly said as madzi). In swahili, the word for water is maji.
I am sure you now see similarities. Xhosa is classified (along with several other languages such as Zulu, Sotho, Shona, Chichewa) as a Bantu language. Now for a bit of interesting info. Swahili is not the "original", "traditional" language of the Swahili coast (Northern Mozambique up until Southern Somalia). It is a mixture of the multitude of Bantu languages that used to exist in these areas, with Arabic. This is why I do not like the word traditional. What was traditional 50 years ago may not have been traditional 150 years ago.
In my third year when studying African Languages we discussed the issue of creating standardised languages that all people in a country can learn in. In South African we have 11 official languages but English still retains the highest prestige. The solution that we came up with (yes, us few people who want to change the world!) was that we needn't drop the status of English (it is after all the world wide language of... everything). We just ned to ensue that the other languages are elevated to the same level. So that if Sotho is you home language you do in fact have the option of learning in your mother tongue as well as English.
My lecturer then pointed out Tanzania and the University of Dar es Salam. One the the biggest obstacles in RSA tertiary education institutions is that students who have not gone fantastic English first language schools or indeed have but have received a substandard education is English terminology, struggle to grasp subject specific jargon at University. My lecturer pointed to the fact that if you want to study at the University of Dar, you need to be fluent in both English and Swahili. Which is great, elevating the local language as well as the international language. In South Africa we only have English Universities (with a few offering Afrikaans credits).
But then there is the fact that Swahili has in fact wiped out local dialects and languages. So is Swahili really local?
It is an interesting topic and one that can be argued round and round.
So back to the topic of similarities.
In Xhosa, when the speaker wants to refer to being in something, going to something/somewhere, or is already at the place, you need to add a "-ni" at the end. Therefore, to say "in/at/to the water" you would say e-manzi-ni (the 'e' replaces the 'a' so amanzi becomes emanzini).
This is the same in Sawhili. To say in/at/to the water, you say: "majini".
I am sure the same applies for Chichewa.
Madzi amphunga
- rice
- water
- salt
- sugar
1. in a pot put in the rice that you will be cooking for your meal. Add water, but add more than what you would usually use to cook the rice. We need excess water for Madzi amphunga. Add salt to taste
2. bring rice to boil and cook for about 5-7 minutes (not until the rice is fully cooked - it can be 10 minutes, but rice must still need to cook more)
3. at your chosen time, pour off most of the excess water into a container big enough to hold the water.
4. return rice to heat and finish cooking. We are finished with the rice. Now we turn to the Madzi (the water)
5. the water will be white and starchy. To this add sugar to taste. The water is not meant to be very sweet. The small amount of salt and sugar bring the taste out.
6. i prefer this drink warm to hot but some people drink it cold.
7. honey can be substituted for sugar
(Malawian recipes)
Achimwene, achimwali, ciao for now
Yesterday, the 15th of August I migrated through the Northern most border post of Malawi (name forgotten, actually, name not known)and entered Tanzania.
Malawi has been a intense, growthful and fun almost-2 months. I learnt that I really do know what is good for me, and that I really (we all do) have a strong intuition. I also learnt that you should not have space cake on your 3rd or 4th try of weed ;)
I met some pretty extraordinary people.
Carol, in Lilongwe, who taught me how to cook, and be confident in meeting people.
The Pickering family in Lilongwe, who looked out for me (and the other people on Nature's gift farm) - who took me to the lake with them, who made me feel welcome always in their home, and being all of us South African, we just got each other.
Agu, in Nkhota kota who, on my second night there, when I had a stomach bug and there was a gale force wind blowing off the lake, told me that I was not going to sleep alone in my tent and took me to her house and I slept wonderfully.
Nick, from Joburg, who works at a backpackers in Nkhata Bay. Us South Africans, I have learnt, have each others backs. Remember Paul on the chappa to the border in Mozambique? Who carried my bag and helped me with some tricky Portuguese situations? Then the Pickerings, and then Nick. When I had my bad space cake trip, he totally sh** the guy out who gave me some, and hated on him with me. Ah, home away from home.
Sari, Emily, Amy, Mike, Cat, Dan, Diana, Jerome, Viola, the Irish people (Sarah and Liam) - the volunteer team at Butterfly space. They will always be a very special part of my life. My time in Butterfly was too beautiful and for now it is a secret story to reply in my mind and heart. People will hear my stories eventually. For now I am jealously guarding Butterfly as my own ;)
Kwame, my best Malawian friend. We hit it off, him and I. We like the same music and we like to dance and he is silly and everyone at Butterfly just loves him. He is also a do everything kinda 23 year old. He helps with the special needs children care group, he is a great Tonga- English or Tonga - chiTumbuka or chiTumbuka - English (I am sure you get my drift) translator. He sends news reports to a community radio station in Mzimba. And runs the bar at Butterfly. If we are not married in the next 12 years, Kwame and I are going to get married.
Fanny is one of the chefs at Butterfly. She is loud and cras and Cat thinks that we have a crush on each other. She swears at me in Tonga, I shout at her is isiXhosa. We laugh, carry on our days and repeat this again and again. It was so great to meet someone who is just as loud as me. Many people I have met so far are soft spoken and angelic. I sometimes feel as if I am deafening them. I definitely do not deafen Fanny. She ululates in my ear.
These are the people that JUMP to my mind, but there have been many more.
Malawi, I have decided (but plans change) will be revisited on my way home.
And by the way, I have dreads.
Mwende bwino
Malawi has been a intense, growthful and fun almost-2 months. I learnt that I really do know what is good for me, and that I really (we all do) have a strong intuition. I also learnt that you should not have space cake on your 3rd or 4th try of weed ;)
I met some pretty extraordinary people.
Carol, in Lilongwe, who taught me how to cook, and be confident in meeting people.
The Pickering family in Lilongwe, who looked out for me (and the other people on Nature's gift farm) - who took me to the lake with them, who made me feel welcome always in their home, and being all of us South African, we just got each other.
Agu, in Nkhota kota who, on my second night there, when I had a stomach bug and there was a gale force wind blowing off the lake, told me that I was not going to sleep alone in my tent and took me to her house and I slept wonderfully.
Nick, from Joburg, who works at a backpackers in Nkhata Bay. Us South Africans, I have learnt, have each others backs. Remember Paul on the chappa to the border in Mozambique? Who carried my bag and helped me with some tricky Portuguese situations? Then the Pickerings, and then Nick. When I had my bad space cake trip, he totally sh** the guy out who gave me some, and hated on him with me. Ah, home away from home.
Sari, Emily, Amy, Mike, Cat, Dan, Diana, Jerome, Viola, the Irish people (Sarah and Liam) - the volunteer team at Butterfly space. They will always be a very special part of my life. My time in Butterfly was too beautiful and for now it is a secret story to reply in my mind and heart. People will hear my stories eventually. For now I am jealously guarding Butterfly as my own ;)
Kwame, my best Malawian friend. We hit it off, him and I. We like the same music and we like to dance and he is silly and everyone at Butterfly just loves him. He is also a do everything kinda 23 year old. He helps with the special needs children care group, he is a great Tonga- English or Tonga - chiTumbuka or chiTumbuka - English (I am sure you get my drift) translator. He sends news reports to a community radio station in Mzimba. And runs the bar at Butterfly. If we are not married in the next 12 years, Kwame and I are going to get married.
Fanny is one of the chefs at Butterfly. She is loud and cras and Cat thinks that we have a crush on each other. She swears at me in Tonga, I shout at her is isiXhosa. We laugh, carry on our days and repeat this again and again. It was so great to meet someone who is just as loud as me. Many people I have met so far are soft spoken and angelic. I sometimes feel as if I am deafening them. I definitely do not deafen Fanny. She ululates in my ear.
These are the people that JUMP to my mind, but there have been many more.
Malawi, I have decided (but plans change) will be revisited on my way home.
And by the way, I have dreads.
Mwende bwino
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Dear Prof Chris de Wet
Dear Prof Chris de Wet
About two weeks ago I went to a Malawian climate change conference, in Senga Bay, near the south of Lake Malawi. I met the consultant (who was facilitating the workshop) while I was in the Lilongwe tourism offices. We got chatting about tourism and intangible heritage and he said I seemed very eager and that I might be interested in coming to the conference and networking. I jumped at the opportunity.
The conference stared in the morning and by lunch break I realised that this was not an action orientated conference. They were here discussing policy. And then all of our honours work came rushing back to me. We were talking about ethics, politics, human rights and everything else about policy creation. It was intense and I was thankful that I had done your module.
However, in my honours year I struggled to understand a lot of what happened in the classes. At the conference I also understood little of what went down that day. It was interesting, but when we went into discussion groups I spent my time like a spectator at a tennis match, as two people debated back and forth (ever so philosophically) about whether people refer to themselves as A or B...
None-the-less, many thanks for introducing me to this concept however vague the grasping of it is!
Much anthropological love
Lauren
About two weeks ago I went to a Malawian climate change conference, in Senga Bay, near the south of Lake Malawi. I met the consultant (who was facilitating the workshop) while I was in the Lilongwe tourism offices. We got chatting about tourism and intangible heritage and he said I seemed very eager and that I might be interested in coming to the conference and networking. I jumped at the opportunity.
The conference stared in the morning and by lunch break I realised that this was not an action orientated conference. They were here discussing policy. And then all of our honours work came rushing back to me. We were talking about ethics, politics, human rights and everything else about policy creation. It was intense and I was thankful that I had done your module.
However, in my honours year I struggled to understand a lot of what happened in the classes. At the conference I also understood little of what went down that day. It was interesting, but when we went into discussion groups I spent my time like a spectator at a tennis match, as two people debated back and forth (ever so philosophically) about whether people refer to themselves as A or B...
None-the-less, many thanks for introducing me to this concept however vague the grasping of it is!
Much anthropological love
Lauren
Why do dogs bark?
Let me start by asking, do you know why dogs bark?
No?
Well let me tell you.
There was once a time when there were three animals called The Big Three: dog, cow and goat. They lived in a placed ruled over by Lion. They would often visit the village where lion lived. It was far and they needed to catch a minibus that cost 25 kwacha each.
One day Lion called for a very important meeting that all the animals had to attend. So dog, goat and cow climbed onto the minibus. Goat was asked for his money but he said he would pay when he arrived. Dog paid 50 kwacha expecting change. Cow paid 25 kwacha. When they arrived, goat ran away, refusing to pay. When dog asked for his changed the conductor refused.
This is why when you see a dog he is barking at the passing cars, and when you see a cow he is walking freely. And the goat, well he always runs away from everything.
~with thanks to Bless, from Nkata Bay~
No?
Well let me tell you.
There was once a time when there were three animals called The Big Three: dog, cow and goat. They lived in a placed ruled over by Lion. They would often visit the village where lion lived. It was far and they needed to catch a minibus that cost 25 kwacha each.
One day Lion called for a very important meeting that all the animals had to attend. So dog, goat and cow climbed onto the minibus. Goat was asked for his money but he said he would pay when he arrived. Dog paid 50 kwacha expecting change. Cow paid 25 kwacha. When they arrived, goat ran away, refusing to pay. When dog asked for his changed the conductor refused.
This is why when you see a dog he is barking at the passing cars, and when you see a cow he is walking freely. And the goat, well he always runs away from everything.
~with thanks to Bless, from Nkata Bay~
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
A opportunity to publish online
This is a fellow writer, published online. Check it out!
http://www.africanwriter.com/articles/568/1/Thousand-Metre-Sea-Shell---A-Short-Story-by-Tristan-Jacobs/Page1.html
http://www.africanwriter.com/articles/568/1/Thousand-Metre-Sea-Shell---A-Short-Story-by-Tristan-Jacobs/Page1.html
Briquettes
How to make paper briquettes:
paper briquettes are a wonderful addition to regular charcoal and can be used for heating up wood/clay and brick ovens.
Need:
1 large tub
a bag of old paper (a wonderful paper recycling initiative)
a pile of dry leaves (optional)
water, to fill the tub
fill tub half with water
pull up a chair, put on some music and spend the next two hours or so (you neednt do it in one sitting, you can break it up, i can get a bit boring...) tearing the paper into little pieces and mixing it in with the water.
Regarding the leaves, these are optional. From my little experience, the leaves do not actually burn as well as just the paper... Maybe it was the type of leaf we used. If you want to get rid of some leaves, you can add a little and play around with the consistency until you get a briquette that burns well. Personally, I prefer just paper.
With the leaves you need to get something that can cruch the leaves to a fine powder. We used a big pestle and mortar, a good old fashined African pounder that you see painted in all the paintings of women busy pounding maize. Make sure the leaf powder is stick free (as much as you can).
Mix some powder, if using, into the paper and water mixture. Leave to stand for two or three days.
You now have a papery slush. Once again, pull up a chair, put on some music and start squeeing out the water and chaping them into balls (of any size).
Once finished leave to dry in the sun for a few days.
Use in conjunction with regular coal or wood. Privided good heat. (I had a picture of it, alas, many pictures have been lost for the time being, working on recovering them!)
These briquettes have been used in Malawi as a prevention means to deforestation in the country for wood to make coal (used for cooking and for firing the mud bricks used in building).
Zikomo!
paper briquettes are a wonderful addition to regular charcoal and can be used for heating up wood/clay and brick ovens.
Need:
1 large tub
a bag of old paper (a wonderful paper recycling initiative)
a pile of dry leaves (optional)
water, to fill the tub
fill tub half with water
pull up a chair, put on some music and spend the next two hours or so (you neednt do it in one sitting, you can break it up, i can get a bit boring...) tearing the paper into little pieces and mixing it in with the water.
Regarding the leaves, these are optional. From my little experience, the leaves do not actually burn as well as just the paper... Maybe it was the type of leaf we used. If you want to get rid of some leaves, you can add a little and play around with the consistency until you get a briquette that burns well. Personally, I prefer just paper.
With the leaves you need to get something that can cruch the leaves to a fine powder. We used a big pestle and mortar, a good old fashined African pounder that you see painted in all the paintings of women busy pounding maize. Make sure the leaf powder is stick free (as much as you can).
Mix some powder, if using, into the paper and water mixture. Leave to stand for two or three days.
You now have a papery slush. Once again, pull up a chair, put on some music and start squeeing out the water and chaping them into balls (of any size).
Once finished leave to dry in the sun for a few days.
Use in conjunction with regular coal or wood. Privided good heat. (I had a picture of it, alas, many pictures have been lost for the time being, working on recovering them!)
These briquettes have been used in Malawi as a prevention means to deforestation in the country for wood to make coal (used for cooking and for firing the mud bricks used in building).
Zikomo!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Photos
You keep some, you loose some. If you go to Lilongwe Kodak shop, you may be given the wrong CD. And then once you have deleted the pictures from you camera you discover that there is music on your picture CD... Is this real or are you dreaming? It has been a long day and maybe you are seeing things... Hope for the best in the morning. Will keep you posted.
Another note on the frog situation...
I met a Lilongwe resident who told me this story:
He was a part of the protests. The people were ready to demonstrate on the 20th of July. But a court interdict suddenly prevented them. They were irritated. The police came on the morning. There were journalists there. Suddenly the police decided to start man-handling the media. The people became restless. The police (stupidly) fired tear gas into the crowd. This, according to Dagrous, was a big mistake. The crowds easily over-powered the police. The crowds were cross with the government, therefore any government building or car was burnt (so there was burning). This apparently happened only in the townships - the government owned shops, PTC, and parked (due to no fuel) cars were torched. Thank goodness there was no petrol or diesl in the cars. Could have been chaotic if explosions were also reported!
Also, now the people were cross with the police. And the police were driving around. And then their cars would run out of petrol, right in front of the crowds and that would frustrate the police because they were easy targets for the crowds and so more violence occurred.
On the second day they police were better prepared.
However, it was some of the police who were showing the crowds which cars to burn and generally enticing them in anti-government riots.
Dargous, my informant, tells me that he is a little worried about the 17th of April, the date the demonstrators have given tot he government to sort their issues. The police will be better prepared and the people maybe more angry. In fact, he thinks that now the Malawi has been given a taste of what they can do, these types of demonstrations will continue until Bingu is out of office, in 2014. You see, Malawians (he tells me) are not scared of dictators. The president before Bingu was one. And now people have seen that they can oppose Bingu.
But he also laughs and assures me this will not be like Libya.
He says the president just uses big, difficult and intimidatory language and is unlikely to carry it out. Unlikely, but we admit a small possibility exists.
There is no strong opposition part in Malawi, it is the civil society that has taken on that role. It was the civil society that brought Bingu to power and they have now turned on him with as much power.
It's just unfortunate that the president thinks that he knows everything because he worked for the World Bank. He wont take advice...
Interesting fact: did you know that he went into exile in about 1994, exile in Zim. Him and Bob are good mates because of this. You see, the president before Bingu (unsure of his name - always a he that is a dictator, never a she...) made it mandatory that all carry a party card and the Jehovah's Witnesses refused. And they were hunted for it.
So that's the story from a well informed (worked in government, tourism, teaching, and is now an independent consultant) Lilongwe citizen.
Viva!
He was a part of the protests. The people were ready to demonstrate on the 20th of July. But a court interdict suddenly prevented them. They were irritated. The police came on the morning. There were journalists there. Suddenly the police decided to start man-handling the media. The people became restless. The police (stupidly) fired tear gas into the crowd. This, according to Dagrous, was a big mistake. The crowds easily over-powered the police. The crowds were cross with the government, therefore any government building or car was burnt (so there was burning). This apparently happened only in the townships - the government owned shops, PTC, and parked (due to no fuel) cars were torched. Thank goodness there was no petrol or diesl in the cars. Could have been chaotic if explosions were also reported!
Also, now the people were cross with the police. And the police were driving around. And then their cars would run out of petrol, right in front of the crowds and that would frustrate the police because they were easy targets for the crowds and so more violence occurred.
On the second day they police were better prepared.
However, it was some of the police who were showing the crowds which cars to burn and generally enticing them in anti-government riots.
Dargous, my informant, tells me that he is a little worried about the 17th of April, the date the demonstrators have given tot he government to sort their issues. The police will be better prepared and the people maybe more angry. In fact, he thinks that now the Malawi has been given a taste of what they can do, these types of demonstrations will continue until Bingu is out of office, in 2014. You see, Malawians (he tells me) are not scared of dictators. The president before Bingu was one. And now people have seen that they can oppose Bingu.
But he also laughs and assures me this will not be like Libya.
He says the president just uses big, difficult and intimidatory language and is unlikely to carry it out. Unlikely, but we admit a small possibility exists.
There is no strong opposition part in Malawi, it is the civil society that has taken on that role. It was the civil society that brought Bingu to power and they have now turned on him with as much power.
It's just unfortunate that the president thinks that he knows everything because he worked for the World Bank. He wont take advice...
Interesting fact: did you know that he went into exile in about 1994, exile in Zim. Him and Bob are good mates because of this. You see, the president before Bingu (unsure of his name - always a he that is a dictator, never a she...) made it mandatory that all carry a party card and the Jehovah's Witnesses refused. And they were hunted for it.
So that's the story from a well informed (worked in government, tourism, teaching, and is now an independent consultant) Lilongwe citizen.
Viva!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Don't throw the frog out with the bath water
The streets of Lilongwe were earily quiet. We drove down the main streets at 6.30 pm and there was no one about. No restaurants were open. We had run out of a lot of our food.
Three days later, I went back to the streets of Lilongwe. And they were as busy, hot, dustly, invasive and normal as they had been before the "riots".
I have put riots in inverted commas becasue they were definitely not as the media portrayed them to be. The looting, many locals believe, were just a few opportunists looking at getting some free things. The burnt out, flame gutted buildings? Well both Game and Shoprite, two of the reported burnt buildings were still clean and filled with good when I went to buy a tent, three days after the demonstations. Either something (renovations) works suprisingly swiftly in Malawi. More likely, no such burning happened.
The fires raging on the side of the road? True, there were probably fires. But outsiders don't understand. One local said, "it's the dry season. We burn our dry sh**". Meaning that dry leaves and other garden material is quite openly burnt on the side of the road. In fact, this morning, almost a week later, I saw fires on the side of the road... of piles of leaves gardeners had just raked up.
That these demonstations are akin to Libya and the Middle East up-risings? Please excuse me, and all the locals and neighbouring country peoples I have spoken to, for laughing out loud. Like the Middle East??? Media people, it really isn't. Malawi doesn't have the money to mobilise it's forces so much. There is no gold, or oil or other valuable resources that greedy outside forces want to get their hands on (and therefore interfere).
The president knows he is in trouble. Malawians aren't happy. Maybe, before these demonstations are likened to the Middle East uprisings, let us wait until the deadline given to the government (sometime in August) to sort their issues. Maybe then it might be worthy of being likened to Libya. But I hightly doubt it.
So the media, don't throw the baby out with the bath water - this isn't the end of normal life in Malawi.
The frog you say? Well, there was a frog in the tub of water in the kitchen at Nature's Gift Permaculture - gave us all a fight at 6am in the morning!
Three days later, I went back to the streets of Lilongwe. And they were as busy, hot, dustly, invasive and normal as they had been before the "riots".
I have put riots in inverted commas becasue they were definitely not as the media portrayed them to be. The looting, many locals believe, were just a few opportunists looking at getting some free things. The burnt out, flame gutted buildings? Well both Game and Shoprite, two of the reported burnt buildings were still clean and filled with good when I went to buy a tent, three days after the demonstations. Either something (renovations) works suprisingly swiftly in Malawi. More likely, no such burning happened.
The fires raging on the side of the road? True, there were probably fires. But outsiders don't understand. One local said, "it's the dry season. We burn our dry sh**". Meaning that dry leaves and other garden material is quite openly burnt on the side of the road. In fact, this morning, almost a week later, I saw fires on the side of the road... of piles of leaves gardeners had just raked up.
That these demonstations are akin to Libya and the Middle East up-risings? Please excuse me, and all the locals and neighbouring country peoples I have spoken to, for laughing out loud. Like the Middle East??? Media people, it really isn't. Malawi doesn't have the money to mobilise it's forces so much. There is no gold, or oil or other valuable resources that greedy outside forces want to get their hands on (and therefore interfere).
The president knows he is in trouble. Malawians aren't happy. Maybe, before these demonstations are likened to the Middle East uprisings, let us wait until the deadline given to the government (sometime in August) to sort their issues. Maybe then it might be worthy of being likened to Libya. But I hightly doubt it.
So the media, don't throw the baby out with the bath water - this isn't the end of normal life in Malawi.
The frog you say? Well, there was a frog in the tub of water in the kitchen at Nature's Gift Permaculture - gave us all a fight at 6am in the morning!
Saturday, July 23, 2011
A wheelbarrow for NGP - a fundraising plea
Nature's Gift Permaculture is a centre (on the farm of Nature's Gift, Lilongwe, Malawi) that provides "training and education through demonstration with the goal of achieving community based food and nutrition security" (http://www.naturesgiftpermaculture.org/)
I have been working on the farm for the last 3 and a half weeks. Here is a bit of a background on the place:
The residential areas are converted horse stables made from fired mud bricks and thatch, wich keeps the place well ventlated.
Our water comes from a borewhole that is pumped up using solar power. The centre is based around the principles of permaculture. On their website, the centre states that "Permaculture systems are ecologically harmonious, efficient and productive."
In this way, the food that is grown here is grown with as little effort as needed to receive maximun results. A nutritionist that regularly works here calls this type of food farming "low-imput, high-yeild farming". If you look at the previous post the principles of permaculture are written there.
We have a (fantastic) composting toilet!
No smell, no flies, no sickness, just wonderfully healthy soil all around!
The biggest project that NGP is undertaking now is to grow jatropha (I think that is how you spell it). Jatropha is a fuel replacement. Growing the seeds and processing them accordinly will yeild good (maybe even better but definitely more sustainable) fuel. In malawi now there is a fuel shortage. This is mainly due to the fact that there is no forex in the country (hence the demonstations - a post on this to come). However, realistically, we have few years left of fuel and we need to start making a plan, fast. Ironically, eventhough we have no fuel here to to mismanagament of funds, in a way Malawi is also better off - the country is getting a headstart at preparing themselves for when there really is no more fuel. Out come the bicycle taxis and lift sharing etc etc etc.
Malawi is lucky to have a place like NGP. Infact, Eston Mgala, the big go-to man on anything to do with permaculture, and who is also the community outreach coordinator for the centre, says that his goal is to make Malawi a permaculture country. He says Malawi is small enough to not e daunted my the hugeness of the project. He is going to the International Permaculture Conference in Jordan later this year, and when he returns he is going to present, to the Malawian government, permaculture as the model for sustainable development (real sustainable development, says Eston) in the country.
The centre is only a years and a half old. Their funding is not expansive, and things are sometimes a bit tight. Also, the centre is not starting tree propogation and the commercial garden is being revemped in order to grow and sell a larger variety of vegetables and fruits. Becasue there is so much happening, the one and only wheelbarrow that the centre owns if often needed in more than one place. A new wheelbarrow costs 14 000 kwacha, which is about R650. Nothing really, but when everthing is expensive in Malawi and the centre has other more pressing needs for their money, they right now cannot afford to but another wheelbarrow.
And so I am asking all those who can spare R50, R100, even R30, to please get in contact with me and I will give you banking details (my banking details because I want to get all the money together and then suprise the centre with the full amount in one go - obviously acreditted to you all).
I really hope that you can all, in some way, help out with getting the centre a wheelbarrow.
Kelvin (and I) say Zikomo kwambiri - thank you very much!
I have been working on the farm for the last 3 and a half weeks. Here is a bit of a background on the place:
The residential areas are converted horse stables made from fired mud bricks and thatch, wich keeps the place well ventlated.
Our water comes from a borewhole that is pumped up using solar power. The centre is based around the principles of permaculture. On their website, the centre states that "Permaculture systems are ecologically harmonious, efficient and productive."
In this way, the food that is grown here is grown with as little effort as needed to receive maximun results. A nutritionist that regularly works here calls this type of food farming "low-imput, high-yeild farming". If you look at the previous post the principles of permaculture are written there.
We have a (fantastic) composting toilet!
No smell, no flies, no sickness, just wonderfully healthy soil all around!
The biggest project that NGP is undertaking now is to grow jatropha (I think that is how you spell it). Jatropha is a fuel replacement. Growing the seeds and processing them accordinly will yeild good (maybe even better but definitely more sustainable) fuel. In malawi now there is a fuel shortage. This is mainly due to the fact that there is no forex in the country (hence the demonstations - a post on this to come). However, realistically, we have few years left of fuel and we need to start making a plan, fast. Ironically, eventhough we have no fuel here to to mismanagament of funds, in a way Malawi is also better off - the country is getting a headstart at preparing themselves for when there really is no more fuel. Out come the bicycle taxis and lift sharing etc etc etc.
Malawi is lucky to have a place like NGP. Infact, Eston Mgala, the big go-to man on anything to do with permaculture, and who is also the community outreach coordinator for the centre, says that his goal is to make Malawi a permaculture country. He says Malawi is small enough to not e daunted my the hugeness of the project. He is going to the International Permaculture Conference in Jordan later this year, and when he returns he is going to present, to the Malawian government, permaculture as the model for sustainable development (real sustainable development, says Eston) in the country.
The centre is only a years and a half old. Their funding is not expansive, and things are sometimes a bit tight. Also, the centre is not starting tree propogation and the commercial garden is being revemped in order to grow and sell a larger variety of vegetables and fruits. Becasue there is so much happening, the one and only wheelbarrow that the centre owns if often needed in more than one place. A new wheelbarrow costs 14 000 kwacha, which is about R650. Nothing really, but when everthing is expensive in Malawi and the centre has other more pressing needs for their money, they right now cannot afford to but another wheelbarrow.
And so I am asking all those who can spare R50, R100, even R30, to please get in contact with me and I will give you banking details (my banking details because I want to get all the money together and then suprise the centre with the full amount in one go - obviously acreditted to you all).
I really hope that you can all, in some way, help out with getting the centre a wheelbarrow.
Kelvin (and I) say Zikomo kwambiri - thank you very much!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sweet potato frutali
Last week thursday i learnt how to make groundnut flour.
You see i have kind of been assigned to work with the food and nutrition team at nature's gift permaculture. so i went for my first lesson and learnt sweet potato frutali. before you all start shouting for the recipe, hold on, delay your gratification, listen to the story and then you will get the recipe.
So it began with the entry request, "Odi!" followed by a, "yes come in". Odi is the Malawian equivalent of hello, knock knock, can i come in.
Inside was Carol and her sister-in-law, Delleah. The fire was already boiling, the sweet potatoes already softening, the courtyard a general smokey tinged.
I asked what i could do, and i was told that i could start making the groundnut flour. I was given a wooden pestle and mortar and about 500g of raw peanuts. Delleah showed me briefly how to go about pounding the nuts in the pestle.
I think the ladies laughed briefly inside, as i slowly started crushing the nuts. After a while Delleah took the pestle from me and shook the not yet smooth flour out. Into a flat bottomed bowl they went and she began shaking and separating the fine powder from the large bits. she put the large bits back into the pestle. and then she repeated this twice or three times again to get only the flour out. This she put into another bowl and i continued pounding.
After a while again, without a word, Delleah took over from me, saying something a little while later that i must be getting tired. this time i did the sifting. "But you can do it", carol exclaimed and patted me on the back.
A while later, again without word, Carol took over from Delleah, also something about getting tired.
And so we shared the process of making lunch. No one got tired, we all made the flour.
we chatted while we worked. I learnt that her son had not actually been born with malaria but had contracted it a few days after he was born because in the hospital they slept without a mosquito net. Her son got something like 17 injections in the first few days of his life.
I also learnt that in all her life in malawi, she had never been to the lake.
i was going to the lake over the weekend.
I learnt that Delleah was working at Escom (yes, also electricity suppliers) and studying Human Resources. And that she was 24 (my age) and had amZING dress sense.
Then we actually started making the frutali.
I tried to do some stirring but the smoke blew into my eyes so fiercely that i had to give it back to carol. she said i was lucky, that is smoke blows onto you, the "elders of her village" would tell the children that it meant they were lucky. she didnt seem to believe it. i got a tingling in my tummy. i hope it is true.
i was sent to make the salad dressing. it was okay, nothing worth mentioning. (however, the salad dressing that i made today - baby, it was a killer!)
carol asked me if i was happy here, and if i was that i should stay here longer than three months, many 6 months, or a year. my gut twisted and renched. i felt so guilty, because i was planning on "resigning" the next day. (which i have - which means i am leaving in a week to travel up north and to stay in nkata bay for a while).
then i was made to learn how to dish up the meal. well, i did the salad. carol dolled out the sweet potato and the soup.
and finally here is the recipe:
Sweet Potato Frutali
- sweet potato (however much you want to make for however many people)
- raw groundnuts (peanuts), about 500g for 12 people (adjust accordingly)
- a good, strong pestle and mortar
- salt and pepper
- water (4 or 5 litres for 12 people, adjust accordingly)
- leeks, as many as you would like
1. start with groundnuts. take a few handfuls and put into pestle. Begin pounding the groundnuts so that they break up. The nuts will not become smooth after one round. Pour the semi-pounded nuts into a container and begin sifting through, picking out the large bits. This is done in a flat dish: shake the contents and the large pieces with jump to the top. Repeat this exercise until what remains is a smooth flour consistency, like maize meal or wholemeal flour. Return large pieces to the pestle and repeat the pounding and the sieving until there are no more large pieces. Do this with all the ground nuts. Set aside an hour at first to make the groundnut flour. The more skilled you become, the quicker it will get.
2. In the mean time cook the sweet potatoes (with a little bit of salt is desired).
3. Once you have your groundnut flour, get the water boiling on the stove or fire and add the flour, stirring continuously to avoid clumping and to make a smooth paste. Cook the flour. It will thicken to the consistency of maize meal porridge (in other words a thick runny consistency, like a soup), the type you eat for breakfast with milk and sugar). Therefore adjust water/flour consistency accordingly) Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. A minute or two before serving slice in leeks.
5. Serve hot groundnut soup over still warm sweet potatoes.
And then the next day i resigned and i went to tell carol. while all the others who i told left my explanation at "this isnt the right place for me now, i have personal things to deal with and that i am not in the right space to do the project", made me sit down and tell her why. and so on friday afternoon i sat at her house again, cried a little at leaving her. and i understood what i had just read in a book. that love is about extending yourself to a person, with the sole intention of helping that person to improve themselves spiritually. it felt okay to tell carol all i had been thinking. and she didnt try and convince me otherwise (except for a bit at the beginning), she just understood.
And that was just by making an effort to learn how to cook sweet potato frutali.
PS - please excuse the typos and small letters, typing on a bit of a broken computer!
You see i have kind of been assigned to work with the food and nutrition team at nature's gift permaculture. so i went for my first lesson and learnt sweet potato frutali. before you all start shouting for the recipe, hold on, delay your gratification, listen to the story and then you will get the recipe.
So it began with the entry request, "Odi!" followed by a, "yes come in". Odi is the Malawian equivalent of hello, knock knock, can i come in.
Inside was Carol and her sister-in-law, Delleah. The fire was already boiling, the sweet potatoes already softening, the courtyard a general smokey tinged.
I asked what i could do, and i was told that i could start making the groundnut flour. I was given a wooden pestle and mortar and about 500g of raw peanuts. Delleah showed me briefly how to go about pounding the nuts in the pestle.
I think the ladies laughed briefly inside, as i slowly started crushing the nuts. After a while Delleah took the pestle from me and shook the not yet smooth flour out. Into a flat bottomed bowl they went and she began shaking and separating the fine powder from the large bits. she put the large bits back into the pestle. and then she repeated this twice or three times again to get only the flour out. This she put into another bowl and i continued pounding.
After a while again, without a word, Delleah took over from me, saying something a little while later that i must be getting tired. this time i did the sifting. "But you can do it", carol exclaimed and patted me on the back.
A while later, again without word, Carol took over from Delleah, also something about getting tired.
And so we shared the process of making lunch. No one got tired, we all made the flour.
we chatted while we worked. I learnt that her son had not actually been born with malaria but had contracted it a few days after he was born because in the hospital they slept without a mosquito net. Her son got something like 17 injections in the first few days of his life.
I also learnt that in all her life in malawi, she had never been to the lake.
i was going to the lake over the weekend.
I learnt that Delleah was working at Escom (yes, also electricity suppliers) and studying Human Resources. And that she was 24 (my age) and had amZING dress sense.
Then we actually started making the frutali.
I tried to do some stirring but the smoke blew into my eyes so fiercely that i had to give it back to carol. she said i was lucky, that is smoke blows onto you, the "elders of her village" would tell the children that it meant they were lucky. she didnt seem to believe it. i got a tingling in my tummy. i hope it is true.
i was sent to make the salad dressing. it was okay, nothing worth mentioning. (however, the salad dressing that i made today - baby, it was a killer!)
carol asked me if i was happy here, and if i was that i should stay here longer than three months, many 6 months, or a year. my gut twisted and renched. i felt so guilty, because i was planning on "resigning" the next day. (which i have - which means i am leaving in a week to travel up north and to stay in nkata bay for a while).
then i was made to learn how to dish up the meal. well, i did the salad. carol dolled out the sweet potato and the soup.
and finally here is the recipe:
Sweet Potato Frutali
- sweet potato (however much you want to make for however many people)
- raw groundnuts (peanuts), about 500g for 12 people (adjust accordingly)
- a good, strong pestle and mortar
- salt and pepper
- water (4 or 5 litres for 12 people, adjust accordingly)
- leeks, as many as you would like
1. start with groundnuts. take a few handfuls and put into pestle. Begin pounding the groundnuts so that they break up. The nuts will not become smooth after one round. Pour the semi-pounded nuts into a container and begin sifting through, picking out the large bits. This is done in a flat dish: shake the contents and the large pieces with jump to the top. Repeat this exercise until what remains is a smooth flour consistency, like maize meal or wholemeal flour. Return large pieces to the pestle and repeat the pounding and the sieving until there are no more large pieces. Do this with all the ground nuts. Set aside an hour at first to make the groundnut flour. The more skilled you become, the quicker it will get.
2. In the mean time cook the sweet potatoes (with a little bit of salt is desired).
3. Once you have your groundnut flour, get the water boiling on the stove or fire and add the flour, stirring continuously to avoid clumping and to make a smooth paste. Cook the flour. It will thicken to the consistency of maize meal porridge (in other words a thick runny consistency, like a soup), the type you eat for breakfast with milk and sugar). Therefore adjust water/flour consistency accordingly) Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. A minute or two before serving slice in leeks.
5. Serve hot groundnut soup over still warm sweet potatoes.
And then the next day i resigned and i went to tell carol. while all the others who i told left my explanation at "this isnt the right place for me now, i have personal things to deal with and that i am not in the right space to do the project", made me sit down and tell her why. and so on friday afternoon i sat at her house again, cried a little at leaving her. and i understood what i had just read in a book. that love is about extending yourself to a person, with the sole intention of helping that person to improve themselves spiritually. it felt okay to tell carol all i had been thinking. and she didnt try and convince me otherwise (except for a bit at the beginning), she just understood.
And that was just by making an effort to learn how to cook sweet potato frutali.
PS - please excuse the typos and small letters, typing on a bit of a broken computer!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
A Return to the Kitchen
Let us suppose that in order to be a liberated woman, you need to renounce skirts, children and home life, and instead embrace office jobs, suits and power positions.
Now let us suppose that in order to empower yourself, in whatever position you find yourself in, you take the power to choose what will liberate yourself, how you will liberate yourself and choose to do what makes you happy and not what is perceived as the 'right' position.
Meet Julia*. She is a graduate of a good Malawian boarding school and of an auto-electrical college. However, she has chosen to learn to cook good, balance, nutritious foods; home grown organic foods, and make people aware of what they eat.
About a year and a half ago, Julia and her husband did the Permaculture Design Certificate and have since moved to Nature's Gift Permaculture farm to continue learning about a sustainable way to grow food, cook food, and live. She now over-sees the Food and Nutrition team on the farm.
The farm employs a number of permanent gardeners and Monday to Friday, Julia cooks or oversees the cooking of lunch for the gardeners, the management team and the volunteers and interns that work on the farm.
The emphasis on the meals is that most, if not all, of the food eaten is grown on the farm. The lunches form part of an ongoing demonstration that people can be completely self-sufficient in feeding themselves. The centre wants to show that sustainable grown food can not only ensure food security but also nutrition security.
The permanent permaculture residents on the farm say the same thing, you can have food security but you also need to have nutrition security is you want to have a healthy country. If you only eat maize, you will become malnourished. Therefore, you have to have a country acknowledges its richness is food resources and is therefore will nourished.
According to management and other workers on the farm, Julia takes huge pride in her garden, as much pride it seems as a person might take in their first big pay cheque or their doctorate degree from a prestigious university.
She learnt to cook from her mother. But she also used her taste sense. In this way she learnt to cook food that she felt like, that seemed like a nice taste combination and that were what she liked (at the time anyway).
Julia has one son, Kevin, and he was born with malaria. But with proper medication and most importantly proper nutrition he is now the fattest, brightest, bouncy-est baby I have seen in a long time. He rarely cries, even now when he is teething.
Just goes to show the importance of balanced, healthy food!
Now let us suppose that in order to empower yourself, in whatever position you find yourself in, you take the power to choose what will liberate yourself, how you will liberate yourself and choose to do what makes you happy and not what is perceived as the 'right' position.
Meet Julia*. She is a graduate of a good Malawian boarding school and of an auto-electrical college. However, she has chosen to learn to cook good, balance, nutritious foods; home grown organic foods, and make people aware of what they eat.
About a year and a half ago, Julia and her husband did the Permaculture Design Certificate and have since moved to Nature's Gift Permaculture farm to continue learning about a sustainable way to grow food, cook food, and live. She now over-sees the Food and Nutrition team on the farm.
The farm employs a number of permanent gardeners and Monday to Friday, Julia cooks or oversees the cooking of lunch for the gardeners, the management team and the volunteers and interns that work on the farm.
The emphasis on the meals is that most, if not all, of the food eaten is grown on the farm. The lunches form part of an ongoing demonstration that people can be completely self-sufficient in feeding themselves. The centre wants to show that sustainable grown food can not only ensure food security but also nutrition security.
The permanent permaculture residents on the farm say the same thing, you can have food security but you also need to have nutrition security is you want to have a healthy country. If you only eat maize, you will become malnourished. Therefore, you have to have a country acknowledges its richness is food resources and is therefore will nourished.
According to management and other workers on the farm, Julia takes huge pride in her garden, as much pride it seems as a person might take in their first big pay cheque or their doctorate degree from a prestigious university.
She learnt to cook from her mother. But she also used her taste sense. In this way she learnt to cook food that she felt like, that seemed like a nice taste combination and that were what she liked (at the time anyway).
Julia has one son, Kevin, and he was born with malaria. But with proper medication and most importantly proper nutrition he is now the fattest, brightest, bouncy-est baby I have seen in a long time. He rarely cries, even now when he is teething.
Just goes to show the importance of balanced, healthy food!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The best of Mozambique
My Mozambique trip has ended. I thought to review some things and clear up some confusions that a certain travel guide, Lonely Planet, gave some of my fellow travellers regarding price.
R250 bus ticket from Midrand to Maputo
Maputo:
BEST place to stay is The Base Backpackers - the nicest people, friendly helpful and you meet very nice people there (a few of whom travelled with me all the way to Vilanculo)
Dorm price: 350 Mt (divide it by four to get rands). Only 6 beds per dorm.
600 Mt in total to get to chappas leaving spot (chappas are mini bus taxis), ad then chappa to Tofo.
Tofo:
Fatima's nest is way over priced and over-rated. And the dorms are dark. Dorm price 500 Mt. Camping is supposedly 150 Mt but on arrival my friends from Maputo found it to be 350 Mt.
For dorms rather go to John's Spot. A small place, lovely bright airy rooms with only 4 beds to a dorm, as opposed to Fatima's with 16.
30 Mt chappa to Inhambane 915Mt for person, 15 Mt for bag)
Inhambane:
Pencao Pechica (Hotel Pechica). 400 My a dorm. Decent. There is another backpackers that charges 350 Mt. I had walked all the way to Pencao and it was hot and I was only staying on night and it was very close to the ferry that we had to take to get to Maxixe to get to Vilanculo.
Ferry to Maxixe: 10 Mt. Chappa to Vilanculo including bag: 250 Mt. But other people got them down to 225 Mt
Vilanculo:
For dorms take Zombie Bananas. 50 Mt more expensive than Vilanculo backpackers but it is worth if for the light open rooms and nice setting. Vilanculo bpackers is well old, dark and in the middle of nowhere. So dorms at Cucumbers 400 Mt.
For camping go to Josef e Tina. Next door to Cucumbers, it is 150 Mt including breakfast (a breadroll, jam, butter, coffee and tea.
Beira bus (for Chimoio we get off at Inchope junction) heading to Chimoio. Leaves at 4am. Costs 450 Mt (100 Mt more if you dot want to sit with you bag on your lap, or between your legs etc). About 40 Mt from Inchope to Chimoio.
Chimoio:
Pink Papaya dorms are 400 Mt. I dodnt stay there, they were fully booked. I stayed at Hotel Madrinhia, 250 Mt a night for a room. HORRIBLE ablution at back of shabeen so noisey until after 12 midnight. But an experience none-the-less and cheap for one night stay.
Bus to Tete: 300 Mt leaving at 4am
Didnt stay in Tete. Went straight through to Zobue, the border to Malawi. That chappa ride cost me, 100 Mt for person, 50 Mt for bag.
NOTE: all buses leave from a place in the city called Mercado Municipal.
R250 bus ticket from Midrand to Maputo
Maputo:
BEST place to stay is The Base Backpackers - the nicest people, friendly helpful and you meet very nice people there (a few of whom travelled with me all the way to Vilanculo)
Dorm price: 350 Mt (divide it by four to get rands). Only 6 beds per dorm.
600 Mt in total to get to chappas leaving spot (chappas are mini bus taxis), ad then chappa to Tofo.
Tofo:
Fatima's nest is way over priced and over-rated. And the dorms are dark. Dorm price 500 Mt. Camping is supposedly 150 Mt but on arrival my friends from Maputo found it to be 350 Mt.
For dorms rather go to John's Spot. A small place, lovely bright airy rooms with only 4 beds to a dorm, as opposed to Fatima's with 16.
30 Mt chappa to Inhambane 915Mt for person, 15 Mt for bag)
Inhambane:
Pencao Pechica (Hotel Pechica). 400 My a dorm. Decent. There is another backpackers that charges 350 Mt. I had walked all the way to Pencao and it was hot and I was only staying on night and it was very close to the ferry that we had to take to get to Maxixe to get to Vilanculo.
Ferry to Maxixe: 10 Mt. Chappa to Vilanculo including bag: 250 Mt. But other people got them down to 225 Mt
Vilanculo:
For dorms take Zombie Bananas. 50 Mt more expensive than Vilanculo backpackers but it is worth if for the light open rooms and nice setting. Vilanculo bpackers is well old, dark and in the middle of nowhere. So dorms at Cucumbers 400 Mt.
For camping go to Josef e Tina. Next door to Cucumbers, it is 150 Mt including breakfast (a breadroll, jam, butter, coffee and tea.
Beira bus (for Chimoio we get off at Inchope junction) heading to Chimoio. Leaves at 4am. Costs 450 Mt (100 Mt more if you dot want to sit with you bag on your lap, or between your legs etc). About 40 Mt from Inchope to Chimoio.
Chimoio:
Pink Papaya dorms are 400 Mt. I dodnt stay there, they were fully booked. I stayed at Hotel Madrinhia, 250 Mt a night for a room. HORRIBLE ablution at back of shabeen so noisey until after 12 midnight. But an experience none-the-less and cheap for one night stay.
Bus to Tete: 300 Mt leaving at 4am
Didnt stay in Tete. Went straight through to Zobue, the border to Malawi. That chappa ride cost me, 100 Mt for person, 50 Mt for bag.
NOTE: all buses leave from a place in the city called Mercado Municipal.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Laurentina, mosquito nets and fishing
Ola, boa a tarde amigos and amigas. Esta bom ou Mocambique.
I am half way through my trip in Mozambique. I will give you a brief breakdowm of how long the trip has taken me:
- about 20 hours of travelling from Midrand in Gauteng to Maputo in Mozambique
- I spent 2 days in Maputo. A busy city, diry unfortunately, but fun none-the-less
- 8 hours chappa ride (a chappa is a taxi, a minibus taxi) to Inhambane (but we could take it all the way to Tofo as well so I went there and spent a day there
- 30 min ride from Tofo to Imbambane, where I spent the afternoon and early morning there.
- a 4 hr chappa ride from Inhambane to Vilanculo, where I currently am.
This is what lies ahead:
1. 7/8/9 hours ride from Vilanculos to Chimoio, on the Beira bus. I will get off at the Inchope intersection and take a chappa to Chimoio.
2. From Chimoio, well, I am not 100% sure how long it will take me to Tete, maybe the same time as Inhambane to Vilanculo. Maybe more...
3. Then from Tete to the Malawian border (closest to Blantyre) is 7 hrs. There I will stay at the border towm, or if I can get to Blantyre, then there, I will stay the night and continue to Lilongwe.
If I leave on Monday, travel for the day, spend a day in Either Chimoio or Tete and travel on alternative days, I should have another 5 days of travelling. SO will get to Lilongwe this coming Friday or Saturday.
Now that these technicalities are taken care of, lets get down to some juicey tales.
Nothing really much happened in Maputo. Oh wait! I caught the ferry to Catembe (there are many rivers to cross in Mozambique), with a Canadian lady, Chris and we walked on the beach, drank coffee and ended up at the market where we ate feijoadas (beans) and rice. Divine. And drank one of Mozambiques famous beers, Laurentina (it is so great having this beer as a reference point. Observe: Ola, tudo bem - how are you - chamo-me Lauren - my name is Lauren. And then there follows the person trying to pronounce my name. Or sometimes there follows a blank stare. And then I say, or if I have the bottle I show, like the beer but without "tina"). The young woman, Locai, who owned the shop loved the fact that we were eating at her shop. Exchanged numbers with us and made plans to meet us in Maputo the next day. She met us the next day, ate something with us. She spoke very little English, we spoke some portuguese (Chris was good at it)
Some piece of artwork in the streets of Maputo
Tofo was relaxing, if way over priced as it is a very touristy area. Good sea swimming, good sea walks.
Inhambane (pronounced n-yam-ban-e)was delightful. Not a huge amount to do if you need a lot of stimulation but it is a wonderfully calming place to live and that night we were there, I drink 2M beer (pronounced dosh-em) while sitting on the wall as the sun set behind us.
A young boy outside the old mosque in Inhambane
So I feel it impotant to talk a little bit about beer. I dont like beer generally. Yes if it is boiling hot and the beer is icey cold, it is fantastic. To have a sit or three. But there is something about beer in Mozambique. It just slides down your gullet so well. And it is icey and it is homid here and often the glasses are also chilled well and well, it is just good.
So Inhambane is the place to retire in, I have decided.
The ride from Inhambane consided of a ferry to Maxixe (pronounced masheesh) and a heated debate with a chappa driver about how much he was going to charge us from Maxixe to Vilanculo. in Maputo I met a lady from Finland and we travelled to Tofo and then Inhambane and then Vilanculo together. In the chappa to Vilanculo we were so bored we ate pretty much the whole time.
In Mozambique, tangerines (naartjies), bananas, roasted peanuts, roasted cashews, pau (pronounced pauing, the staple bread of Moz) and boiled eggs can be found EVERYWHERE. I have over indulged on cashews and peanuts.
And now Vilanculo.
This morning I went for a walk/run on the beach. In this escapae, I found fishermen, and fishermen's friends and sisters and brothers, all pulling a rope out of the sea. This is how it went. they'd grab te rope and walk slowly up the beach, pulling the rope behind them. When a person got to the top they'd drop the rope and go to the front and start pulling again. I walked/ran passed them. Then decided to return to my backpackers. but then on the spur of the moment I asked the fisher people if I can help pull. Oh my word, maybe an hour and a half later we finished. I was shuffled from the rope-out-pulling, to the boat where I had to wind the rope onto the floor, back to pulling the last of the net out. I was given 6 fish as a thank you. Bless them. The one lady wound them onto a piece of reed anad I carried my fish home.
on the way, I bumped into 3 artists who asked if tey could buy my fish. I "sold" 3 of the fish for 10 Metecaish and a coconut. On my way from them I found a stall selling naartjies and I used my 10 Mt to buy 5 of them. And then armed with fish, naartjies and conocut I went to Josef and Tina camping, where Hanna (Finland) and Miles and Jess (Uk and USA) were camping, and the owners there quickly braai-ed the fish and we ate some pau, fish, tangerines, cononut and paw-paw.
I think I might go fishing again tomorrow. If my hands are usable tomorrow - the rope was wet, rough and covered in sand.
I wont lie, the sight of the fish flapping there was a bit disturbing... especially one type of fish that was quite beautiful to watch as they swam (I secrectly released on back into the surf). I thanked their souls for giving themselves to be eaten.
Oh yea, mosquito nets... I always have such issues with them!! The first night with a mosquito net (provided by the backpackers) saw me wake up twisted in it. The second night it kept on slipping off the bed post and covering my face in bustly smelling net. I swore.. I once almost fell off my bed trying to sort it. Here, in Vilanculos, the nets are beautiful to sleep under.
The view from my bed, on the floor, through my mozzie net, to the other beds
Ate logo (see you later)
I am half way through my trip in Mozambique. I will give you a brief breakdowm of how long the trip has taken me:
- about 20 hours of travelling from Midrand in Gauteng to Maputo in Mozambique
- I spent 2 days in Maputo. A busy city, diry unfortunately, but fun none-the-less
- 8 hours chappa ride (a chappa is a taxi, a minibus taxi) to Inhambane (but we could take it all the way to Tofo as well so I went there and spent a day there
- 30 min ride from Tofo to Imbambane, where I spent the afternoon and early morning there.
- a 4 hr chappa ride from Inhambane to Vilanculo, where I currently am.
This is what lies ahead:
1. 7/8/9 hours ride from Vilanculos to Chimoio, on the Beira bus. I will get off at the Inchope intersection and take a chappa to Chimoio.
2. From Chimoio, well, I am not 100% sure how long it will take me to Tete, maybe the same time as Inhambane to Vilanculo. Maybe more...
3. Then from Tete to the Malawian border (closest to Blantyre) is 7 hrs. There I will stay at the border towm, or if I can get to Blantyre, then there, I will stay the night and continue to Lilongwe.
If I leave on Monday, travel for the day, spend a day in Either Chimoio or Tete and travel on alternative days, I should have another 5 days of travelling. SO will get to Lilongwe this coming Friday or Saturday.
Now that these technicalities are taken care of, lets get down to some juicey tales.
Nothing really much happened in Maputo. Oh wait! I caught the ferry to Catembe (there are many rivers to cross in Mozambique), with a Canadian lady, Chris and we walked on the beach, drank coffee and ended up at the market where we ate feijoadas (beans) and rice. Divine. And drank one of Mozambiques famous beers, Laurentina (it is so great having this beer as a reference point. Observe: Ola, tudo bem - how are you - chamo-me Lauren - my name is Lauren. And then there follows the person trying to pronounce my name. Or sometimes there follows a blank stare. And then I say, or if I have the bottle I show, like the beer but without "tina"). The young woman, Locai, who owned the shop loved the fact that we were eating at her shop. Exchanged numbers with us and made plans to meet us in Maputo the next day. She met us the next day, ate something with us. She spoke very little English, we spoke some portuguese (Chris was good at it)
Some piece of artwork in the streets of Maputo
Tofo was relaxing, if way over priced as it is a very touristy area. Good sea swimming, good sea walks.
Inhambane (pronounced n-yam-ban-e)was delightful. Not a huge amount to do if you need a lot of stimulation but it is a wonderfully calming place to live and that night we were there, I drink 2M beer (pronounced dosh-em) while sitting on the wall as the sun set behind us.
A young boy outside the old mosque in Inhambane
So I feel it impotant to talk a little bit about beer. I dont like beer generally. Yes if it is boiling hot and the beer is icey cold, it is fantastic. To have a sit or three. But there is something about beer in Mozambique. It just slides down your gullet so well. And it is icey and it is homid here and often the glasses are also chilled well and well, it is just good.
So Inhambane is the place to retire in, I have decided.
The ride from Inhambane consided of a ferry to Maxixe (pronounced masheesh) and a heated debate with a chappa driver about how much he was going to charge us from Maxixe to Vilanculo. in Maputo I met a lady from Finland and we travelled to Tofo and then Inhambane and then Vilanculo together. In the chappa to Vilanculo we were so bored we ate pretty much the whole time.
In Mozambique, tangerines (naartjies), bananas, roasted peanuts, roasted cashews, pau (pronounced pauing, the staple bread of Moz) and boiled eggs can be found EVERYWHERE. I have over indulged on cashews and peanuts.
And now Vilanculo.
This morning I went for a walk/run on the beach. In this escapae, I found fishermen, and fishermen's friends and sisters and brothers, all pulling a rope out of the sea. This is how it went. they'd grab te rope and walk slowly up the beach, pulling the rope behind them. When a person got to the top they'd drop the rope and go to the front and start pulling again. I walked/ran passed them. Then decided to return to my backpackers. but then on the spur of the moment I asked the fisher people if I can help pull. Oh my word, maybe an hour and a half later we finished. I was shuffled from the rope-out-pulling, to the boat where I had to wind the rope onto the floor, back to pulling the last of the net out. I was given 6 fish as a thank you. Bless them. The one lady wound them onto a piece of reed anad I carried my fish home.
on the way, I bumped into 3 artists who asked if tey could buy my fish. I "sold" 3 of the fish for 10 Metecaish and a coconut. On my way from them I found a stall selling naartjies and I used my 10 Mt to buy 5 of them. And then armed with fish, naartjies and conocut I went to Josef and Tina camping, where Hanna (Finland) and Miles and Jess (Uk and USA) were camping, and the owners there quickly braai-ed the fish and we ate some pau, fish, tangerines, cononut and paw-paw.
I think I might go fishing again tomorrow. If my hands are usable tomorrow - the rope was wet, rough and covered in sand.
I wont lie, the sight of the fish flapping there was a bit disturbing... especially one type of fish that was quite beautiful to watch as they swam (I secrectly released on back into the surf). I thanked their souls for giving themselves to be eaten.
Oh yea, mosquito nets... I always have such issues with them!! The first night with a mosquito net (provided by the backpackers) saw me wake up twisted in it. The second night it kept on slipping off the bed post and covering my face in bustly smelling net. I swore.. I once almost fell off my bed trying to sort it. Here, in Vilanculos, the nets are beautiful to sleep under.
The view from my bed, on the floor, through my mozzie net, to the other beds
Ate logo (see you later)
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
You are as strong as your strongest part
The Farewell
"...And facing the people he said:
People of Orphalese, the wind bids me leave you. les hasty am I than the wind, but I must go.
We wanderers, ever seeking the way, begin no day where we ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even as the earth sleeps we travel.
We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered...
... if aught I have said is truth, then truth shall reveal itself in a clearer voice, and in words more kin to you thoughts...
...You have been told that, even like a chain, you are only as strong as your weakest link. But this is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link.
To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of the ocean by the frailty of its foam. To judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their inconsistency.
...even like asn ocean, you cannot hasten your tides. And like the seasons you are also. And though in your winter you deny your spring, Yet spring reposing within you, smiles in her drowsiness and is not offended.
I speak only to you in words of which you yourself know in thought. And what is word knowledge but a shadow of wordless knowledge?
..whenever you pass by a field where you have laid your ancestors look well thereupon, and you shall see yourselves and your children dancing hand in hand. Verily you often make merry without knowing.
...For this I bless you most:
You give much and know not what you give as all.
Verily the kindness that gazes upon itself in a mirror turns to stone. And a good deed that calls itself by tender names becomes the parent to a curse.
...it is with this belief and this knowledge that I say, You are not enclosed in your bodies, nor confines to houses or fields. That which is you dwells above the mountains and roves with the wind.
It is not a thing that crawls into the sun for warmth or digs holes into the darkness for safety, But a thing free, a spirit that envelopes the earth and moves in the ether.
It this be vague words, then seek not to clear them. Vague and nebulous is the beginning of all things, but not their end... Life, and all that lives, is conceived in the mist and not in the crystal.
And who knows but a crystal is mist in decay?
...That which seems most feeble and bewildered in you is the strongest and most determined. Is it not your breath that has erected and hardened the structure of your bones?
...Could you but see the tides of the breath you would cease to see all else...
But you do not see, nor do you hear, and it is well.
the veil that clouds your eyes shall be lifted by the hand that wove it, And the clay that fills your ears shall be pierces by those fingers that kneaded it.
And you shall see.
And you shall hear.
Yet you shall not deplore having known blindness, nor regret having been deaf.
For in that day you shall know the hidden purpose in all things, And you shall bless darkness as you would bless light.
{Quietly my captain waits, has waited, until I am ready to leave now}
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me
~excerps from The Prophet by Kalil Gibran
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