Wait….There’s a Mzungu at the Market?
So Kilole, my village, is small, has no electricity
or running water, and is about 2 ½ hours from my banking town of Lushoto. The closest two villages are Kwekanga
(where there is a market on Tuesdays) and Kweboma. They’re also super tiny and don’t have amenities. The past few weeks, I’ve gone to
Kwekanga on market day in order to get food. It’s about a 45 minute walk (if you’re walking Tanzanian
speed) from Kilole and there are so many people who go there to sell the food
they’ve cultivated during the last week. Food prices are incredibly cheap in the villages, it’s a
local-ivore dream come true (all the produce is grown and cultivated by the
person you buy it from), all the money goes into the local economy (which is
admittedly not strong whether the money stays there or not), and it’s a great
place for me to establish some relationships in the community. And allow me to state it again, it’s
cheap! I can get avocados for
150tsh (Tanzanian shillings), which is about 8 cents, a pile of 5 or 6 tomatoes
for 200tsh (about 12 cents), and a kilogram of potatoes for around 500tsh (30
cents). Considering that when I
was in Morogoro (a fairly large town where I did my pre-service training) and
tried to buy food in the market, people tried to sell an avocado to me for
1000tsh (about 60 cents). Sure,
that’s not too expensive, but in comparison with the 150tsh I pay, they’re
definitely trying to screw me over just because I’m a foreigner in the big
towns. So uncooked food is
inexpensive in the village and is pretty damn good.
Every
time I’ve gone to Kwekanga on market day, people talk. Like excessively so. After the first time I went, one of the
teachers at my school (who lives in another village) commented the next day
that he heard I’d gone to the market.
When I returned the next week, there were many people who live in
Kwekanga who greeted me in the local language (Kisambaa) because they
remembered that I could say a few words in it. The next week I went, almost everyone greeted me only in
Kisambaa. They all giggle too when
they hear me try to speak it because they think it’s really funny that the
white girl is trying to formulate the incredibly difficult words that everyone
in the area uses on a daily basis.
I
believe that I really am the only foreigner in my area (meaning outside of the
larger towns). There are no other
Peace Corps volunteers on my side of Lushoto, and no other organizations that
are permanent in any way out in my far-flung villages. I know I’ve complained about being
stared at and sticking out horribly, but when people hear that the Mzungu went
to market, there’s only one option: it’s the Madam who teaches at Mariam
Mshangama Secondary, because there is no other non-African in any
of the surrounding villages. In a
few weeks, my Peace Corps boyfriend will come visit, and I’m sure having two
white people in the same place will cause quite the frenzy and astonishment.
So
the past few times I’ve gone to the market, I’ve taken my super awesome fancy
Tanzanian basket to carry food in.
Many locals have them too, or plastic ones, or just big rice sacks that
they carry stuff back in. Many
people (especially students and anyone younger than me) carry my things out of
respect, whether I want them to or not.
I don’t think they’ve grasped the concept that I want to carry my things
because it means I get a slight work out.
But they almost always will take my things from me and carry it for
it. Sometimes it’s kinda nice
(like when I have 2 buckets full of things from town and have a 20 minute walk
to my house) but other times it’s something tiny like an empty basket. Though it’s out of respect and them
trying to do something nice for me, it’s really annoying when they say “Oh, let
me take that.” I’m a fully
competent woman who can carry stuff!
Gah! I’ve done hard work
too, don’t pamper me! But I can’t
say that, cuz some people get insulted if I don’t let them carry my
things. Oh, the conundrum.
Anyway,
Tanzanians are wicked good at carrying things on their heads without their
hands. They’ll carry buckets full
of water, with no lid, without their hands, and walk up mountains with it. It’s pretty badass. Baskets, backpacks, flat binders, sacks
full of potatoes….Tanzanians carry it all on their heads. So I’ve taken a stab at it. The last two times I’ve gone to market,
I’ve convinced the people walking back with me (students or mamas who think
it’s weird if I walk anywhere alone, regardless of what time of day it is) to
let me carry my stupid little basket, trying to balance it on my head without
using my hands. During those walks
back, I’ve heard loads and loads of laughter, as people realize that the silly
white lady is trying to fit in with Tanzanians. And failing miserably.
The best I’ve done is carrying the basket for almost a minute with no
hands, though my arms were hovering a few inches within range to catch the
basket if it fell. Though I can’t
do it (yet), people seem to be enjoying the fact that I’m trying. Maybe I’ll come back to the U.S. and
stand out horribly as I attempt to balance my basket on my head at the super
market.
