Chicken anyone?

Today I taught a 55 year old man to use Microsoft Word. He had never used a mouse or a keyboard before. He’s been working on a printing press in the basement of the Diocesan office that is older than him.
He also rides his bike 10km to work each morning. And back again. Woah. Riding your bike in Tanzania is quite a risky adventure. With cars—or rather SUVs or Japanese vans full of 30 people (called daladalas)---swerving every which way to get where they need to go faster than…

The other Saturday when driving to Nagulo parish a chicken ran across the road. Why?
Well…we all already no the answer to that one. But in my sheltered life I had never actually seen a chicken cross the road---to get to the other side.

“How much is a chicken around here?”
I was told they cost about 3,000 shillings---about 2.5 dollars (not that you can quote me on that with the value of the dollar falling by the day…).

We pull up in our Land Cruiser. You can always tell you’re almost there because there is a crowd of over a hundred people gathered outside a clay-brick church. We are greeted by a choir of the older women of the parish singing welcome songs and banging on homemade goat-hide drums and tin-can maracas.
We exit our huge, old vehice.
Mzee (old man) John, and John the driver. And me. Me, the random white girl who hops out of the car in her Western top and skirt (though covering more than below mid-calf!). Everyone is surprised to see my face—and surprised I can greet them in their own language, plus “Good Morning” in the local tribal language, Chigogo.
The women finish their song. The kids join in clapping and cheering another one. We thank them and are then ushered to the priests house for “chai;” which literally means tea in Swahili, but also means you get some bites as well.
We are given tea with milk and sugar. You wouldn’t tell by the looks of it, but this parish must have a tad more money if they’re willing to splurge and put milk in our tea! Seriously. I’ve never had tea with milk in a village. Often times the tea tastes a bit funny due to the salty water that is dug from the wells, (although often masked in quite a load of sugar you’d think you were at Waffle House).
Once everyone has eaten their fill of fresh, warm, greasy doughnuts, we head back to the church. John asks me if I need to “wash my hands.” I usually try to visit the “necessary room” (as my Nana calls it) only once per village visit.

We walk the 500 meters in the hot, dry heat back to the church. The children are sitting at the front of one side of the church. The eight-ten men have just enough room to fit in the last “pew,” a handmade wooden bench that would only fit 6 American men. Speaking of space—there is much less idea of personal space here. You will see a six foot long bench in a parish with 8 people on it. Then two more will come over and squeeze in.
When I was teaching kids would come Up in my face with their paper and questions. I had to give a little demonstration (in a humorous manner of course) about “the American personal bubble.”
They didn’t really get it. But they laughed. Every time…

So back to Nagulo. The children and ten men on one side of the church. The other half was women. Old women, smiling women, babies on the backs of women, women breast feeding, women singing, women frowning and half asleep, women in colorful cloth covering most of their body and half of their head.
I can never get enough of seeing women in USA or TEXAS bandanas. Makes me smile. everytime.
Red, White and Blue. You never see another flag.

And so the festivities begin. We all stand together to pray.
Although I cannot form a particularly potent prayer in Swahili I can understand when others are praying. Everyone is always thankful for the safe arrival of their visitors. Like I’ve said before, traveling by car in Tanzania isn’t a pleasurable experience.

The distribution of uniforms, school supplies and shoes carries on as in any other parish.
While all the children were off (somewhere..) changing into their new clothes, I asked if the “mamas” could teach me to play the drum. There is no entertainment like trying to get a mzungu to find an African beat. Hopeless. But we had some laughs. Or, rather, they did…

Once all the children changed to make sure their clothes and shoes fit alright we three visitors at the front of the church were told to stand. Eight children (in four pairs of similar heights) swing their arms from side to side as they sing a song they wrote together with the pastor’s wife.
They dance to the front of the church (after a few children here and there have been swatted or shoved out of the way of the center isle). Four kids in order of shortest to tallest form on either side of us. When the song is finished I am given a box with 12 fresh eggs. (Note that eggs in this country go for 200 shillings each---about 16 cents, (more expensive than in the US) and quite a sacrificial gift coming from a small village almost two hours from Dodoma.
Then comes the exciting part. I am handed a chicken. A live, squawking, terrified chicken. A once vegan, struggling vegetarian who won’t buy leather shoes or toothpaste tested on animals---is handed a chicken. yum yum. We each got one. Me, John, and the other John.

As I was thanking Nagulo parish for my gifts I almost began to cry. I felt so at home in this place somehow. People's words, and eyes and smiles were so kind. When I made my terrible jokes in Swahili they laughed. I could make the kids smile for photos, (not an easy feat in most places!). Many of the guardians came over and greeted me and shook my hand. It was a wonderful visit.

But then we had to go back to the priest’s house so they could cook us lunch!
First tea with milk, then eggs, then a chicken, now lunch!
It was all too much.

I sat awkwardly on a chair in the shade with 6 mzee men talking about the weather. At one point we began talking about New York City, (in a combination of English and Swahili---KiswaInglish). They were asking how people get around, on foot, by bike, by car.
Yes, all those.
And via the subway.
The what?
You walk down the stairs, and you are underground, under the huge, tall buildings. you get on a fast train, (trains in this country are slower than buses), and when you get off you climb the stairs and find yourself in another part of the city.
“You go underground, as in, UNDER the buildings?”
This poor old man—he was so shocked I nearly thought he would fall out of his chair.
But just imagine…your whole life…mud bricks, dirt floors, a thatch roof that you have to rebuild (possibly along with your whole house) after each rainy season; digging wells, carrying water on your head for miles, then, praise Jesus, you get a bike.
The thought of walking down, down, deep, underground, and finding a train down there??? What?
The only thing that is underground for him is water.
Lifegiving water.
And roots. And rocks.
And for me having a live chicken handed to me was quite the shock. In more ways than one.