Lunch today was much more spirited than usual. My neighbor Thomas came into the office, I have not seen him in two weeks, but I greet him with, “Yeah for World Cup starting today!” and a high five. This gets the whole team talking and arguing. Mainly about Brazil or Portugal. This cup, they are in the same group, which promises an intense head to head (June 25th). People here love Brazil, but they also love Ronaldo (Portugal’s star footballer), so there is a bit of a tension. I of course am loyal to Portugal (Santos family heritage). We all battle it out a bit, and then make plans for the opening game this evening. It is a rather uninspiring match up, South Africa v Mexico, but most of us support South Africa for patriotic reasons. All but Thomas. He says he loves football too much to support a team for patriotic reasons. I try to paint the picture of the hope and excitement the cup brings to this continent, and of how devastated we will all be if South Africa looses the first game of Africa’s World Cup. He will hear none of it.
4:30 rolls around and the 8 people going to town to watch the match from Murgwanza converge at the church compound to hitch a ride with the vehicle. There are some new faces, and I begin to ask “Portugal or Br…” they cut me off, “Brazil, of course.” I am most definitely out numbered. I feel myself getting more excited for the games to come.
We pull up to the Sky Giraffe, one of the two bars in town. By bar I mean a fenced in yard, with thatch roof covering a corner. Thomas has been promising me that they have a HUGE screen, biggest in Ngara. From my previous visits, I only remember a tiny little TV with horrible sound. We enter, and under the thatch structure is a big TV, about the size of most standard American household TVs, and rows and rows of men sitting in plastic chairs. We get some of the last chairs in the back. As it turns out, the one thing Tanzanians will be on time for is World Cup. The waiter in his usual dingy “kiss me I’m Irish” shirt comes around to collect our 300 shilling ($0.25) entrance fee and get us some sodas.
In the US, we would use the World Cup as a great excuse to start drinking beer at 10am. Here it is 5pm on a Friday, and not a single man has ordered a beer. Fantas and Cokes all around. Is this game too serious to drink? I find myself wondering. Being that I am sick and sitting next to the Vicar General of the (dry) Anglican Church, I follow suite and order a Fanta orange. The tension is mounting as we watch the national anthem. My heart is racing along is everyone in the room. The World Cup is officially open. I clap. Alone. It felt strangely anticlimactic. I wanted to yell, this is the World Cup people! Africa’s World Cup!
When we came in, it was clear that I was the only mzungu in the place, but as I looked around, I am also the only woman. So I guess I deserve all of the strange looks I was getting.
For the first ten minutes, Mexico dominates the field with a number of shots on goal. Thomas looks at me gloatingly and asks if I am in his camp yet. I go on about standing by your team, but the guy to my left starts wavering. Everyone seems really reserved. I expected much more excitement and involvement for the first game of this cup, Africa’s Cup. It turns out that I am louder, and perhaps more foul mouthed than everyone in there (I was trying to keep it under control, but it is second nature when the opposition is passing the ball through your defense towards the goal). Mexico scores and we all go silent (or more silent). I bury my head in my scarf and miss the ref’s offsides call, nulling the point. That gets a little rise from the crowd.
Half time rolls around, it is still 0-0. South Africa is on the offense a bit more, but still, nothing too promising. Everyone gets up, and it seems, decided that at this point in the game it is time to drink, they return with beer in hand. Thomas asks again if I am now voting (his word) for Mexico. South Africa has upped their game, I am not making any pronouncements, but it might be a draw.
About 10 minutes into the 2nd half, South Africa is aggressively sprinting down the field with the ball, the ball is expertly passed to the wing, and he shoots up and over the goalie landing with a swish in the upper corner of net. A Qwik Goal as my old coach would have said.
UPROAR!!!! We all shot to our feet, hands in the air, screaming and jumping. YEAH!!! People were literally hanging from the rafters. The joy I felt is difficult to capture. I think a lot of it was relief. It was important that South Africa got the first goal of the cup! We were now in the game for good. The tension was broken, I was no longer the only one yelling at the screen. Everyone was on the edge of their seat ready for them to do it again.
Mexico evens it out. We try to get a few more in, but they deflect off the goal posts. And, just like that, the game ends. Tied up, 1-1. Everyone gets up without saying much and leaves. In a hurry to get some food before the second game starts.
Showing posts with label Tanzania. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tanzania. Show all posts
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
My Sanctuary
I am greeted at the Border with big hugs by three of my new staff members. We sit and have a drink overlooking the Rwandan hills and Tanzanian highlands. I am working hard to find a balance where I do not come off as too young, and where they do not feel threatened or tested. They slip in and out of Kiswahili. I can usually understand the gist of their conversation, but I am nowhere near where I was two years ago. My brain is constantly in problem solving mode, trying to bridge the gap over the words I do not know. Currently we are debating which staple food is better, matoke (mashed green bananas) or posho (maize meal). Unfortunately, I am in matoke country.
Before I know it, I have a 12 month multiple entry visa and we are in our Landcruzer whizzing down the tarmac towards my new home. The first short cut is impassable due to the high waters of the river. During low water levels, there is a pulley bridge. Basically a platform that you drive one car on to and the man at the other end pulls it on cables to the other side. So we take shortcut number two. We turn right off the tarmac onto a red dirt road. “If you ever need to get back here, just tell them to take you to the prison” Pastor informs me. I am immediately transported. I had spent the last 20 hours driving through cities and towns on main roads, now I was driving through serious bush. Occasionally we pass through towns. When I say towns, I am being generous. Really they are clusters of homes with the occasional church; they lack shops or trading centers. We crest over hills and get phenomenal views of the Tanzanian highland plains and dive down hills into the bush that is taller than the car. “Karibu Tanzania” says Mama Mpinizle. I breathe deep, not having the words to describe my enjoyment at that moment. Despite all of the beauty, there is a voice in the back of my head asking, “Ngara can’t actually be this small, right?” Eventually we hit another tarmac road and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
We climb, and with each minute, the view becomes more spectacular. The wind wafts the smell of eucalyptus through the window. This smell has always meant home to me. The road right off the freeway to my grandparent’s house is lined with Eucalyptus trees, so when I smelled them, I always knew we were close. Pastor points to a town on top of a hill and tells me that is Ngara. I had been told that my house has a porch with an amazing view, so I start imaging that one of the houses I see on the eastern side of the hill is mine, overlooking the amazing valley.
I am disappointed as we fork off down a small road, seemingly down into the valley. Pastor greets everyone we pass as they stare at the Mzungu in the front seat. In about 10 minutes we pull off into the compound. It is not the traditional compound in that it does not have a fence, but it is four houses spread out across the ridge of a hill. The last one in is my house.
From the outside, the house is very unsuspecting. It is a simple L shape with gray cement walls. The front view is a bit of a letdown. There is a huge water catchment with pipes and hardware, and a few windows. Nothing to write (or blog) home about. Pastor unlocks the door and welcomes me to my new home. The front room is empty, just red cement floors and an empty shelf. Disappointing, I thought the house was fully furnished. I slip off my shoes and walk down three stairs. My jaw drops. To my left is a full kitchen with dark wood cabinets and countertops, a full sink, full fridge and a gas stove and oven. And a sky light. In front of me and stretching out to my right is the dining room, office and living room, complete with a fire place. Windows line the walls. The furnishing is a mix of rustic and modern with African art, ceramics and woven crafts decorating the space. There is a small TV, DVD player and sound system accompanied by a vast DVD collection and a shelf full of books on Africa history, politics, and some top notch literature (maybe I didn’t need to bring those thirty some-odd books, but better safe than sorry!).
Between the office and living room there is a door that leads to my porch. I step outside to see sweeping views of the Rwandan hills and the river valley floor. I am in shock. I am giddy. I try to keep my cool while my coworkers help me bring my stuff inside, but I am bursting with excitement and disbelief. This is totally a house I would dream about living in. Oh, wait, I do!
The hallway is lined with skylights. My room is at the very end, the eastern wall is lined with wooden doors for closets and storage. The northern and western walls have 3 windows lighting the room beautifully. In the center is a double bed with a light down comforter, draped in a white mosquito net. There are many thoughts running through my head, but the most prominent is, man this sure beats my twin bunk bed that I could not sit up in and that was too short, forcing my feet to angle over the foot board and get tangled in my mosquito net.
There is a full bathroom, shower, hot water heater, the works.
There is a garden outside, that, in my future life I will visit with my kitchen knife, selecting romaine lettuce, French beans, cilantro and papaya for my dinner.
My coworkers are eager to get home, as it is 6:30pm on a Friday. We say goodbye and make plans to go to the weekly market that just so happens to be on Saturdays. As they drive off I let out a giddy scream, do a little dance and just revel in my new home.
This house just demands a nice glass of red wine. So I scour the kitchen, and what do I find…I bring my glass of cab and the letter from my predecessor and settle into the couch on my porch to watch the sunset. The light wind rustles the leaves of the faithful eucalyptus trees. The east is orange and the hills below blue in the fading light.
…
The founder of my organization is married to a UN worker who was here working in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide and the ongoing instability in Burundi. Currently they live in Thailand, but they keep this house as their home as it is where their kids were born, and it is heaven. They come home once a year for a month and allow the Director to stay in the house the rest of the year. I marvel at the idea that someone who keeps such a beautiful house would hire me to lead her organization and say a little thank you to the United Nations. I sip my wine.
Photos:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rksantos/HowDifferentLifeCanBeLifeInNgaraTZ#
Before I know it, I have a 12 month multiple entry visa and we are in our Landcruzer whizzing down the tarmac towards my new home. The first short cut is impassable due to the high waters of the river. During low water levels, there is a pulley bridge. Basically a platform that you drive one car on to and the man at the other end pulls it on cables to the other side. So we take shortcut number two. We turn right off the tarmac onto a red dirt road. “If you ever need to get back here, just tell them to take you to the prison” Pastor informs me. I am immediately transported. I had spent the last 20 hours driving through cities and towns on main roads, now I was driving through serious bush. Occasionally we pass through towns. When I say towns, I am being generous. Really they are clusters of homes with the occasional church; they lack shops or trading centers. We crest over hills and get phenomenal views of the Tanzanian highland plains and dive down hills into the bush that is taller than the car. “Karibu Tanzania” says Mama Mpinizle. I breathe deep, not having the words to describe my enjoyment at that moment. Despite all of the beauty, there is a voice in the back of my head asking, “Ngara can’t actually be this small, right?” Eventually we hit another tarmac road and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
We climb, and with each minute, the view becomes more spectacular. The wind wafts the smell of eucalyptus through the window. This smell has always meant home to me. The road right off the freeway to my grandparent’s house is lined with Eucalyptus trees, so when I smelled them, I always knew we were close. Pastor points to a town on top of a hill and tells me that is Ngara. I had been told that my house has a porch with an amazing view, so I start imaging that one of the houses I see on the eastern side of the hill is mine, overlooking the amazing valley.
I am disappointed as we fork off down a small road, seemingly down into the valley. Pastor greets everyone we pass as they stare at the Mzungu in the front seat. In about 10 minutes we pull off into the compound. It is not the traditional compound in that it does not have a fence, but it is four houses spread out across the ridge of a hill. The last one in is my house.
From the outside, the house is very unsuspecting. It is a simple L shape with gray cement walls. The front view is a bit of a letdown. There is a huge water catchment with pipes and hardware, and a few windows. Nothing to write (or blog) home about. Pastor unlocks the door and welcomes me to my new home. The front room is empty, just red cement floors and an empty shelf. Disappointing, I thought the house was fully furnished. I slip off my shoes and walk down three stairs. My jaw drops. To my left is a full kitchen with dark wood cabinets and countertops, a full sink, full fridge and a gas stove and oven. And a sky light. In front of me and stretching out to my right is the dining room, office and living room, complete with a fire place. Windows line the walls. The furnishing is a mix of rustic and modern with African art, ceramics and woven crafts decorating the space. There is a small TV, DVD player and sound system accompanied by a vast DVD collection and a shelf full of books on Africa history, politics, and some top notch literature (maybe I didn’t need to bring those thirty some-odd books, but better safe than sorry!).
Between the office and living room there is a door that leads to my porch. I step outside to see sweeping views of the Rwandan hills and the river valley floor. I am in shock. I am giddy. I try to keep my cool while my coworkers help me bring my stuff inside, but I am bursting with excitement and disbelief. This is totally a house I would dream about living in. Oh, wait, I do!
The hallway is lined with skylights. My room is at the very end, the eastern wall is lined with wooden doors for closets and storage. The northern and western walls have 3 windows lighting the room beautifully. In the center is a double bed with a light down comforter, draped in a white mosquito net. There are many thoughts running through my head, but the most prominent is, man this sure beats my twin bunk bed that I could not sit up in and that was too short, forcing my feet to angle over the foot board and get tangled in my mosquito net.
There is a full bathroom, shower, hot water heater, the works.
There is a garden outside, that, in my future life I will visit with my kitchen knife, selecting romaine lettuce, French beans, cilantro and papaya for my dinner.
My coworkers are eager to get home, as it is 6:30pm on a Friday. We say goodbye and make plans to go to the weekly market that just so happens to be on Saturdays. As they drive off I let out a giddy scream, do a little dance and just revel in my new home.
This house just demands a nice glass of red wine. So I scour the kitchen, and what do I find…I bring my glass of cab and the letter from my predecessor and settle into the couch on my porch to watch the sunset. The light wind rustles the leaves of the faithful eucalyptus trees. The east is orange and the hills below blue in the fading light.
…
The founder of my organization is married to a UN worker who was here working in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide and the ongoing instability in Burundi. Currently they live in Thailand, but they keep this house as their home as it is where their kids were born, and it is heaven. They come home once a year for a month and allow the Director to stay in the house the rest of the year. I marvel at the idea that someone who keeps such a beautiful house would hire me to lead her organization and say a little thank you to the United Nations. I sip my wine.
Photos:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rksantos/HowDifferentLifeCanBeLifeInNgaraTZ#
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