Big Rock ... "Jiwe Kuu"

Yesterday we took the morning off and did something we haven't done for a while: took a hike! Being from the Northwest, we love hiking. It's something both Kyle and I did individually before dating and getting married - and something we now enjoy doing with our 3 children. Whether it's just a 4-mile hike on a Saturday morning or a longer backpacking trip into the Olympic National Park, we love setting out on a good hike. It doesn't always go smoothly (the kids can regale you with tales of multiple "death marches" Dad took us through in Mexico, as well as southern Utah) - and we often start the day off with some sort of drama ("My shoes are too small!" ... "It's too hot!" ... "I'm hungry"). But once the hike is underway, we always end up having a great time. And by the end of it, everyone is tired, ready for a cold drink, and proud of their accomplishments. 

There isn't a lot of accessible hiking in Mwanza. It's a large, sprawling city. There is a definite downtown - but then the neighborhoods stretch out mile after mile in each direction. There aren't hiking trails, either. There are foot paths that lead to people's homes and little village-like areas with fruit/veggie stands, farming, etc. But there aren't really hiking trails. And that makes a lot of sense. People here are just trying to get enough food each day and conserve calories from a lot of manual labor jobs - so going on a hike for exercise literally makes no sense. Most people walk to and from work, as well as to and from the market for food, as well as to and from anywhere else they need to go. So even if there was accessible hiking, it just isn't a thing here.

And we've missed it. A lot. Back in the NW we lived 1-mile away from a trailhead that took us deep into BLM land - and eventually into Olympic National Park itself. But that sort of hiking isn't going to happen here in Mwanza - and I'm learning to accept that (like many/most things here) it's going to look different. And so, this weekend, we tightened our tennis shoes (except for Collin, who apparently outgrew his tennis shoes without telling anyone and had to wear flipflops the entire way), grabbed a backpack with water bottles, and headed out to find the "Jiwe Kuu" - or "Big Rock" in Swahili. Kyle had been here before and knew the way. It was hotter than I liked - but since it's always hot in Tanzania compared to the NW - it was as good a day as any to make the journey. 

We set off through our neighborhood - the one I walk the dogs in every morning. Here in Tanzania, we stick out as white people. So, we get chatted at quite a bit as we walk. The word people use here for white people is "mzungu". It technically means "traveler" - and I guess since the early travelers were likely European and mostly white - it stuck. We must've said hello to no less than 50 people in our first 45-minutes of walking. People are curious and friendly - and sometimes ask for things like money or juice. And everyone definitely enjoys showing off their English by greeting us with "good morning" and "hello, how are you?" In 12-months if there is any Swahili we've learned - it's how to greet people. Greetings are very important in Tanzania, and both Kyle and I know how to greet people and respond to most of the greetings at this point:

    "Mambo - Poa"

    "Kwema - Kwema"

    "Habari - Nzuri/Salama/Safi"

    "Hujambo - Sijambo"

We climbed a steep-(ish) hill, passed more houses, kids, women balancing buckets of fish on their heads, men on motorcycles. Eventually we arrived at what is known as "Jiwe Kuu". And I was shocked. It was massive. Like - massive! And covering almost every square inch of this massive rock were tiny, little fish called "dagaa". Women stood in bunches of 4 or 5 with their young children running around their feet or tied to their backs sweeping the

small fish out to dry on the hot surface of Jiwe Kuu. Buckets of fresh fish sat waiting to be scattered across the rock to dry - only to be gathered back up hours later, returned to the buckets, and taken to market to sell. Realizing that these women had carried these heavy loads all the way up from the lake shores made our "hike" - once again - seem silly in the eyes of a Tanzanian. These women hiked every morning, loaded down with an incredible amount of weight, up and down these steep hills - just to sell enough dagaa to feed their families each day. 

Our family sat amidst the business of the women and children - enjoying the views of Lake Victoria. Local birds of prey - the Black Kite - flew beneath and at eye level to us, waiting for a moment to snatch unguarded dagaa drying in the sun. Out on the lake we saw what looked like plumes of smoke rising from multiple locations. We learned that these were actually swarms of lake flies hatching - so thick that they have been known to kill fishermen that get stuck in their paths. While it's hard for me to ever really forget on any given day that I'm living in East Africa, there are some moments that definitely define the experience more than others. Sitting atop Jiwe Kuu was one of those moments. Wow. I'm 100% in Africa.

Our hike down was easy and nice. The kids talked with Dad about AI and if it should run the government or our current leadership - and some other conversations that only happen after spending several hours

of uninterrupted time together. We splurged with a cold drink at a little corner store before heading back to the house. 

I'm not sure it counts as a "hike." We never got away from Mwanza or people. But we did get to see some really amazing nature with the Black Kites and views of the lake. I'm always in awe of how nature is still very much intertwined into the day-to-day life in Tanzania - even in a city of 2 million. I still miss our hikes in the NW. I miss the stillness. The silence. The being alone. But I'm forever grateful for the experiences we've had and continue to have in Tanzania. When we are back in the US there are things I will look forward to doing again. But I will miss days like our Jiwe Kuu day. The days I'll be able to look back on and know: we lived in Africa.

                                   House with laundry drying along the hike

     Woman carrying dagaa.                                                 White Heron of Tanzania

NOT! Funny in any language

For those of you that know me, you know that I love to laugh. I love jokes. I love telling them, I love hearing them, and most of the time, I don't even mind being the butt of them. A certain practical joke involving a lawyer at my last job comes to mind.... Thank you, Nick and Lonn!

Understanding humor in another language is always a challenge. I remember learning Spanish. I would think of something funny to say mid-conversation, but I couldn't get it out on-time or I completely mangled what it was that I was trying to say. It was very frustrating. As I got better, I was quicker on my feet, and I could get a joke out or two. Like many people, I use humor to connect with others and to cope with difficult situations. Humor has often helped me diffuse hardship in my life. 

Thankfully, the cultures of Spanish speakers and of English speakers are not so different. For the most part, we get each other's humor, even if we don't always share the same comedic sensibility.

Tanzania is not that way. The humor is highly contextual and tribally nuanced in a way that I can barely grasp it even when someone explains things like I am a child. There are double, triple, and triple-double entendres, that one would only get from having lived here a very long time. In my case, that would be at least 1,000 years. At the same time, the people are quite literal in their communication at least compared to how Westerners often communicate with our daily use of metaphors.

For example, I saw a young father pushing his children on a cart out of a store. It was cute and everyone was smiling at them. As they were exiting the store, I gestured to his kids and asked if he had paid for them, as they were quietly sitting amongst his groceries. He looked at me like I was crazy and asked, “why would I have to pay? These are my children." I smiled sheepishly and then left before somebody thought I was involved in human trafficking. Joke FAIL.

Another time, while visiting the beaches in Zanzibar, a Maasai warrior offered me 70 cows for my thirteen-year-old daughter's hand in marriage. The Tanzanians around me thought that this was quite funny, but I was so caught off guard by my protective dad instincts, that I could hardly laugh at first…. or even consider a good counteroffer.

More often than not, Tanzanians think I am funny when I'm trying not to be. It seems that everything I do or fail to do is a source of amusement. My language skills in particular seem to provide comic relief. 

Consider the following conversation:

Kyle: Hello sir, how are you?

Constantine: I'm fine, how are you?

Kyle: I'm doing well. How is my wife?

Constantine: You mean "my" wife?

Kyle: Yes. That's what I said. How is my wife?

Constantine: (Looking very confused). You want to know about “your” wife or “my” wife?

Kyle: (Completely oblivious to “my” error). “My wife.” I want to know how she is doing...And of course, how your children are doing as well.

Constantine: (With tears of laughter in his eyes) As far as I know, I think she is doing just fine! And so are “my” children. Thank you for asking!

And so goes my daily slaughter of the Kiswahili language. Sometimes it causes laughter and sometimes chagrin. One thing it never seems to do is to work correctly. On a weekly basis, I seem to embarrass myself with a previously undiscovered way to punish the lexicon. It keeps me humble.

Consider a recent event where I was humbled even more than usual. The culture in Tanzania is much more modest compared to that of the United States. It’s rare that you see a man with his shirt off and people tend to dress more conservatively in general. So, you can imagine the surprise of our neighbor when he was working on his roof next door. Our bathroom shower curtain was being laundered, so I engaged in my daily hygiene without one. We had never seen him up on the roof before. In fact, we had never seen anyone up on the roof before (it is perfectly eye-level with our bathroom). And we definitely haven’t seen anyone up there since. I had no idea what to do when we made eye contact while I was soaping up in the shower, so I just waved a perfunctory hello. I didn’t laugh and neither did he, but my wife thought that it was tremendously funny when she heard what had happened.

So that is how it works over here. I am funny when I don’t want to be, and I bomb when I try. It’s okay though. Tanzanians smile easily and are happy when you just stop and say hello. I’ve definitely learned how to do that. Who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll even learn to tell a joke or two.

The Author. Smiling. But, not funny.....