Some Tengeru thoughts

Ugly ugali

Ugali is one of the most popular dishes in Tanzania. It's a stodgy, rice-like substance balled up into a lump of white dough. It is eaten with a variety of vegetables, stewed or otherwise. I get sick just thinking of ugali. I hate it. We eat it at least once a week. At first, I felt fairly indifferent to it – its taste is very plain, somewhat bitter, and not particularly striking. I can't for the life of me understand of why I detest it so deeply. I think it's something to do with last Sunday. That day, I was feeling bored out of my mind – bored to the very core of my soul. I hadn't yet achieved anything significant in my volunteering (since remedied), and I had just got back from an absolutely wonderful safari. Yet there I was, stuck at home, doing absolutely nothing. And in the middle of it all sat a plate of ugali. Two mouthfuls into this dish, I put my spoon down. I stared at my plate dejectedly. I wanted no more. And from that moment on, I have hated ugali. Of course, I say this with the snootiness of a westerner raised on luxurious culinary delights of my choosing. As the majority of Tanzanians live in poverty, for them to have a steady supply of ugali every day would be a dream come true. Perhaps ugali represents, then, my general callousness towards poverty. I know I'm lucky to be eating it, but that doesn't stop me from not wanting to taste something better.

Willy

Willy is a real swell dude. Holding a folded umbrella that he never seems to use, Willy sits by a tree on the roadside, along my daily walk to Tengeru. The road is paved, a rarity for rural villages like ours. Why is it paved? When President George Bush came to visit Arusha a few years back, he was supposed to drive down that road to meet a few of the local villagers, impress them with his Texan schtick. So, as his visit was planned many months in advance, the local government scrounged up enough money to pay to transform this dirt road into a concrete carpet fit for a king. When Bush visited, his special agent entourage decided that the hills of Mt. Meru presented too many inviting perches to potential snipers. So Bush didn't use the road. But Willy uses it. Willy sits in the sun with an umbrella, his old back spread against a tree that's probably his equal in age. Every time I pass him – which typically occurs whenever I leave the house – I greet him and we exchange pleasantries. He grins a tooth-lacking grin, and compliments me on my improving Swahili. “You know Swahili!” he exclaims with finger-wagging excitement. I like Willy – he's my friend. The opposite of Willy is the old man who lives across the street from me. I think of him as my nemesis. The first time I met him, I tried to be nice with him – he told me that I should be nicer and that I should come to his house, otherwise I was acting superior. I think he called me a “slaver”, amidst other accusatory remarks – before I had even considered his invitation. Promptly, I bid him adieu. Now he ignores me when we cross paths, and I return the favour.

Coetzee and Kurt

This weekend I made my way through two books: J.M. Coetzee's Disgrace and Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. Having previously read just one novel by each author, I was impressed to find my second literary undertakings even more satisfying than the first time around. I now have strong desire to digest each authors' entire catalogue. It's a pity I'm in a place that lacks real bookstores. Still, if I'm to maintain any hipster credibility - as supported by album titles of cool bands like The Klaxons, Dan Mangen and Jeremy Fisher - I really have to move on to Vonnegut's Gravity's Rainbow as soon as possible. Along with Douglas Adams, I find Vonnegut to be one of the funniest writers - therefore people - on the planet. Luckily, summer is just ahead, and it tends to be the season where I wade through piles of books and get my smarts together... I wonder if there's a Vonnegut Collection I can buy. Unfortunately, one of the only books I have left to read here in Tanzania is a biography of Ringo Starr by Alan Clayson. Woe is me. Next, I'll either tackle Aldous Huxley's A Brave New World (yes, I haven't read it yet) or The Butcher Boy by Patrick McCabe. I'll do my best to maintain my dignity and not read the Confessions of a Shopaholic sitting on my house's bookshelf.