About three weeks ago I stayed three night with a family who lives in the heart of Iringa. Upon hearing that my hosts had never had pizza before I swore to set this dire calamity right. “Pizza is America’s favorite food”, I told them as I ordered two pizzas from a local tourist restaurant. When the pizzas arrived my family poked them hesitantly and then imitating my way of holding and eating enjoy their first slices. Later that night as my mama laid out the component of dinner neatly in a row on the large coffee table in the middle of the cement house she said, “I have made you Tanzania’s favorite food.” She cooked Chipsi Mayai which is a French fry-omelet commonly served with avocado and soda. It was delicious and so simple to make that I was able to cook it up for breakfast at our study abroad campus the next week. The measurements for this recipe have been scaled down to serve 5. Enjoy! 10 potatoes (about 2 per omelet) 10 eggs (about 2 per omelet) A pinch of salt Cooking oil 1) Peel potatoes and cut them into French fry-like wedges 2) Pour cooking oil on the pan 3) Fry the potato wedges and set them aside 4) Beat two eggs in a bowl and add some salt 5) Place fries back in the pan and pour the eggs on top of the chips until the bottom of the pan is covered. 6) Wait for the eggs to dry on both sides and turn golden And then you’ve got Chipsi Mayai! It’s that simple. Serve warm at any time of day. // A special thanks to Jonathan Hennigh for helping me in the writing of this post. |
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[chapter two] The men grunting and growling dance around us in moonlight with intentional ferocity. Eyes like wolves they lung in turn towards us girls and the young ones beside us. All are clothed in shades and patterns of red- geometric blood splatters like the cow they slaughtered that morning when an artery was nicked and a smooth black spine stooped to it. Sluuuuurpp! I heard as he lowered his lips to the spouting fountain. Oh and they drank that sweet juice right down as it flowed out. So here, now, remembering that sound- the men hum-growl and convulse in time with their grunting, in pace with their self-essencing mouth music. Music that should not be notated. They made it. They made it. Now their chests, mostly bare, are one with the damp, dusk air and a solo tenor voice belts out reaching for the moon as the darkling continues. He slides up the pitches and tops out his own sound. All around me are glistening bodies. I feel energy, sense the nervous excitement of my counterparts as we shuffle our feet and shake our shoulders- no Maasai beads crown our pale skin. But the young ones wear them- the harmonic jingle, a perfect feminine addition to the guttural whoops of the men. I inch my way to the soloist and song comes out of me. I sing I feel it tear out of me, ripping through my throat as my imitated song is pulled to his as it assents. we breathe. I feel the ebb and flow of their breath and intention. I sway back and forth unthinkingly, matching their cresting break, dueting myself. Surrendering to the whims, it feels like sweet submission, a vital part no lesser no greater than a highly esteemed guest. In this dance we find lose ourselves. We find ourselves. In this dance we lose each other. We find each other. The shear might of the Maasai shown- the tall, slender men circled around us women. we pulsated to the pleading, prodding movements. A sacred tenor sings for the moon. And in the middle stands a pale creature singing herself to him. Journal Entry
March 21, 2015 We are on our way to visit the Maasai and experience many wonderful and terrible things. This morning we packed our bags, fortified our bodies with sunblock and bug spray, and piled into a big green van that was used in World War II by the Germans. There was excited chatter this morning over our French toast breakfast (prepared by Tanzanians from a wazungu [European] cookbook) There was also a soothing prayer for safe travels and open minds. But here we are an hour into our long journey and things feel different. The windows are open but we cannot see more than countryside flickers. Some students were speaking before, but the wind made it difficult and all have fallen silent now. The wind itself provides paradox- it’s mad rush teasing me to freedom yet I sit in this armored vehicle unable to do anything but write in this little notebook. This is the in-between. That luscious lull of expectant waiting. One cannot take anything more from it, but an experience for that is what it demands. Just experiencing, just being has its consequences. Namely the filling of mental space provided. Oh, but we’re here. And suddenly it breaks. How delicate a thing that in-between. Snuggled limbs tingle and conversations resume- rekindled by the stop of the van. Sleepy heads roll to position. Am I the only one who mourns the Nothing that just fled? Did anyone else notice or care? We have at last reached our destination, the land of the Maasai people. I’ve felt our empty spaces filled with victory of arrival. Nothing was there, but something was lost. We troop on to our next event now. Goodbye. -------- “Maasailand has a pace all its own. Stare and be stared at. It’s okay. It’s good. “-Eli Knapp -------- One of the things I love most about travel is the ‘fish out of water’ effect. This is the title I’ve given it anyway. The basic idea is that once you are out of your own comfort zone (i.e. a fish out of water) you see things differently, notice things you never noticed before… like the way you can’t breathe air cus you’re a fish and fish don’t do that very well usually. While being in Tanzania, a slow laid back country where having a conversation is more important than meeting a deadline, I have noticed some things about my America. I live in an event- oriented world that discredits allots of unstructured, un-accomplishment time. This has resulted in a decided unrest with the present. Unless I am actively in pursuit of quantitative achievements I feel purposeless. I don't know what to do with myself. Those times of transition, the in-betweens, [sitting at a stoplight, waiting in a dentist’s office, summers or breaks between semesters] host a thin film of shame like the old photographs of 70’s hair and bellbottoms, Polaroid’s hidden in dusty shoe boxes. I fill these spaces with facebook twittling and Instagram browsing or the making of plans to do the things I should be doing such as making money or doing something that will get me credentials to make more money. |
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November 2015
AuthorLaura Johnson is a junior writing major at Houghton College. Laura writes for The Houghton Star, Mousailink, and One Mission Society. This virtual space is a journal of things that matter to her; tales, musings, wanderings. |