There Won't be Snow in Africa this Christmastime

Ah Christmas. You feel it in your bones, according to the soundtrack of a certain trendy-becoming-classic holiday movie. You feel the nip of the frost and the snuggly, goodwill sensation evoked by the white flake-covered ground, by the colorful reflection of the lights draped carefully over trimmed and watered landscaping, by the fresh scent of pine that emanates from berry-freckled garlands and wreaths.

Or, if you're me, in Tanzania, you feel the hot equator sun scorching your SPF-30 lathered skin, even through the bone-rattling more-than-mile-high winds. And although there are muddy puddles off which the lights could reflect, they don't, because lights require electricity, and that's something we just don't have out here in the bush. Nor do we have much Christmas spirit. Aside from the occasional cheesy rendition of "Jingle Bells," I haven't heard a single holiday song, and most of my neighbors still don't know what their plans are for celebrating (although at least one has plans to stay home, eat pilau - an Indian spiced-rice dish that they cook on special occasions, and drink soda). I have a stuffed snowman, a miniature tree, a wooden candy-cane garland and a single ornament (along with some red and green M&Ms...mmm), and the most decorated house on the block ("block").

I don't mean to complain, really. I'm learning to enjoy it here; I've even found some pleasure in cooking over a charcoal stove. My best dish so far is probably my cream of tomato and potato soup, which not only sounds nice because it rhymes but also contains some protein because I thicken it (that's the "cream" part) with a powered milk substance called Nido. It is rivalled by my garlic-cheese rice, though, which I can only make within a 24-hour period of leaving town, due to my lack of refrigeration. I also enjoy making chiapattis - another Indian dish that they eat ALL the time - which are basically really fatty, fried pancakes. But I make them with water, not oil, and I splurged 7,500 shillings on a non-stick pan so that I don't have to cook them in oil, either. So they're basically just eggless pancakes.

Another reason I can now enjoy cooking is because I got a cabinet made that has a mini-countertop so that I don't have to squat or sit on the floor like a Tanzanian. Speaking of furniture, I also got a cabinet made for my bedroom, in which I put all of my clothes, which got moldy from the inconquerable moisture that hangs in the air, and, as I found out, especially in between wooden shelves. Now, I'm waiting on five more pieces of furniture, ordered from the same carpenter. I'm also making some other house-oriented progress: I hung curtains, and fabricated running water (using buckets, spigots, and a knife) in the main house and in the choo (that's my toilet room). Once I've finished decorating, I'll try to include some before and after photos so you can all compliment my resourceful style.

In other news, a not-atypical example of the expectations Tanzanians have of white people. Last Sunday morning, at 6am, I was lying in bed half-asleep, debating trekking out to my choo to pee. I was leaning toward dealing with the discomfort of my bladder in favor of the cozy warmth of my flannels, hoodie, and two blankets, when there was a "Hodi!" outside my door ("Hodi!" is what they shout instead of knocking). I ignored it. It was a student; I could tell by the voice, and I couldn't think of any reason a student would need me, specifically me, the new mzungu teacher who barely knows the language or the school grounds and hasn't even read the nationally-regulated syllabus yet. But she hodied again. And again. When she switched to "Please Madame may I come in?" I thought maybe there was an emergency. So I yelled "Subiri! (Wait!)", put on a kanga (a piece of cloth the tie around my waist because it's unacceptable for me to be seen in pants), and looked out my window. It was, in fact, a student, but not one from my school (the uniform was different). Stupidly, I opened the door anyway. The girl, maybe 14, was standing on my porch in her neon pink school sweater at 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning WITH HER SHOES ON (a strict no-no in a country where there is dirt everywhere, dirt/insects are synonymous, and cleaning a house is a full-time job because by the time you finish the second room, the first is dirty again). Anyway, I was pissed. "Karibu (Welcome)," I said, not meaning it. "Please Madame, mother mine is very poor. No has fees my study. Help you." Confused, I told her to switch to Kiswahili. She explained that her family is poor and can't afford to send her to school, although she had been accepted to one of the top private girls' schools in the country. Then she handed me three letters, all from different people, two in incoherent English, the other in Kiswahili too advanced for me to understand, but the salutations on all three read "Dear Mzungu." I also noticed that the letters were actually written to the mzungu (another PCV) who teaches at the school where she had been accepted. At this point, I was too confused and too tired, had to pee too badly to question what she was doing at my house in the bush when both the school to which she had been accepted and the mzungu to whom the letters were written were in a large town about four hours south. And I certainly wasn't going to pay her school fees. So I told her I couldn't help her and sent her away. Then I swept my porch, peed, and went back to bed.

Anyway, if you've made it to the end of this post, that probably means you really love me. So I take this opportunity to make my own solicitation: please, if you write a letter, include wall decorations. Anything from magazine pictures to funny headlines to photos or doodlings that might amuse me. My walls are depressingly blank. And if a bar of dark chocolate or another American treat happens to slip its way into the envelope, it will probably get eaten by someone, somewhere ;).

Let me know what else to write about! I can't imagine that you care about this stuff, so let me know what you do care about and I'll write about it! Have a stellar holiday everyone! Signing off, xoxo...

PS. Thank you to Band Aid for the ripped-off title of this post.