let me tell you about my favorite people in kwakiliga… about babu mzungu. now, i spend hours and hours trying to deflect the word “mzungu” (white person) from the kwakiligan vocabulary, even though its often accompanied by “shikamoo” (“i hold your feet”), which is a sign of respect which I also say to your elder. but babu’s skin is so light that people use this term as his nickname … an ironic term of endearment. and endearing he most certainly is. most of his front teeth missing, his walking stature is hunched forward, and he generally wears a cloth replica of a fedora. we have an ongoing joke which started a few months back when I walked past his front door holding a cup of coffee, a coveted and generally unseen commodity in these parts. normally i wouldn’t flaunt such a nicety, but i happened to be in a hurry before beginning a day of fence building and hoped that it might be mistaken for a cup of tea. but, when babu figured out my scheme, i offered to share a wee bit and since then it’s been our “thing”. our sunday morning routine. he recently came down with a horrendous case of malaria, which is reputed to be bad this year, and even despite his headache and tired state he cracked the joke that a cup of coffee would bring the life back to him … help him heal quickly. i followed through with my delivery, and he followed through with a clean bill of health. 
sunday and monday were easter celebrations (see photo for easter meat slaughter) and the entire community of kwakiliga seems to be under the assumption that with it would come the rains. not one, not two, but three people told me that since so many people have been praying for it, it would surely be delivered on april 8th so color me suprised when there was a brief downpour in the middle of the afternoon (though brief doesn't cut it). i can’t count the number of hours that i’ve spent thinking: “are those storm clouds?” “is that rain drops or wind on the roof?” to feel so helpless when it comes to delivering much needed water to a community with none is almost more than one can bear. and the repercussions are severe: starvation for some, hunger for others. so here i sit, writing this blog, armed with 15 bags of sunflower seeds, a computer desktop full of fertilizer information, a rough plan for an intercropping experiment, and nothing to do.
and things are about to shift in my day to day here. sarah is leaving on our prearranged departure flight, april 27th, but in light of the project having been well planned but not yet executed, we thought it was important for one of us to stay on the ground and see it through. i must admit that i’m excited to stay longer in the community, though the 1.5 months will be the most solitary of my life without any other english speakers in kwakiliga. one of my selfish motivations for staying is to really, TRULY, feel as though I know swahili … and thus far, people are far too forgiving of my “broken” speech. this extension affords me several nights over a bantu stove (goodbye kerosene camp stoves) practicing my speech. and to work up the callouses on my hands from hand hoe usage. and to finally carry a bucket of water on my head. but i must admit that though many "things" keep me very invested in my life here, the people are amongst the most important. here are some highlights:
mama mwaka is one of my favorite community members and remarkable “survivor” with no husband, grown kids, a bad back, sore legs, muscles the size of my thighs, and a high pitched laugh to counteract her manly strength. she is soft spoken, makes the most delicious coconut beans in town, and recently gave me a sambaa name: makiheo. the sambaa are a tribe of people found in the tanga region, though i’ve failed to adopt any more than greetings in their dialect … much to her dismay.
my best friend in town, a 25 year old diva named mama zai with a dangerously handsome husband named keah, has always insisted that her two daughters refer to me as dada andrea, or sister andrea, but recently i was promoted to aunt, or “shangazi”. whenever they greet me, they come at a full gait and jump into my arms yelling “shikamoo, shangazi”.
the bus conductors have become our spokespeople of sorts. they wave hello when passing through, send greetings via passengers traveling to kwakiliga, listen to american hip hop on our headphones during long journeys, and even explain our work to interested passengers … even though we’re standing RIGHT there. it never ceases to amuse me that people look shocked when we disembark in, what any other person would consider to be, the middle of nowhere.
and mzee mcharo, patriarch of my tanzanian family , an exceptionally innovative farmer, and a smart man who picked up playing sudoku at the drop of a hat, recently exchanged the following, heartwarming words:me: i’m exhausted.
mzee mcharo: why? you have done work?
me: no, but listening to and speaking swahili tires me. thought i have become accustomed to your swahili, it no longer tires me.
mzee mcharo: and i too have become accustomed, to you. and when there is not food or money to share, i will share my love.
need i say more as to the charms of kwakiliga?
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