Minority

Yesterday we went to the monthly market in Jangwani. It's a traveling entourage of vendors and other entrepreneurs, and they visit our cluster of villages on the fourth of every month to set up shop. They sell food and clothes and machetes and pots and tools and sandals made from old tires. And some other stuff, too. It's a big attraction for anyone who lives within ten or so miles of here, and some come from as far away as 40-50 miles. Everybody goes. There were thousands of people there. I guess they have nothing better to do.

It was about a 30 minute hike from the missionary houses, and I went with Trevor (missionary kid - I teach him geometry, he translates things for me, we're going to show the Jesus film), Josh and Silas (two visitors from Michigan who incidentally were in my cabin when I was a counselor at Grace) along with Denisi and Aidani (two guys who live on the compound whose fathers work for Kanisa la Neema, Grace Church of Tanzania) Trevor was the translator, I was the "adult supervision," Aidani and Denisi helped us get black people prices instead of white people prices, and Josh and Silas just looked for sharp things to buy.

As soon as we arrived, we were celebrities. It's hard to miss white people in a sea of black faces. People wanted to shake our hands, they shouted at us, either to buy their stuff or just to shout at us, and we had a consistent crowd of dozens of curious little kids who wanted to gawk at Wazungu (did I tell you that means white person/European yet? Well, it does.)

We visited the guy who was selling sandals made from tires. I got myself a pair for about $2. This, I think, is an essentially African souvenir. Forget the mass-produced carbon-copy ebony carvings and wax-prints, the rich tapestries, the bizarre novelty musical instruments – no, all I want is a pair of sandals made from a set of Goodyears, like real Africans would wear. (If you want some, I can bring you a pair if I see them again. Just ask.)

We probably did sandal-guy some good, because when we showed up, we brought a huge crowd with us. Everyone wanted to see what the white people were doing. We're a novelty. They don't see us out there that much. People stare, and some people touch. You can hardly blame missionaries for leaving their kids at home when they go out.

After a while our crowd dispersed. Presumably because we didn't do anything bizarre like fly or try to eat a baby or anything. A few children stuck around. Whenever I turned to them, they'd back up all cartoonishly and some would run and hide. A couple times I embraced it and mugged for them, which some found hilarious while others found it terrifying.

At one point, I walked off on my own toward the beer tents (some things are the same all over the world) to see if I could find a cold soda (soda baridi, they say). This proved to be a mistake, because when you mix large crowds and alcohol and curiosity, tact disappears. Lots of people shouted at me, and though they weren't trying to be mean, it was terribly uncomfortable. Maybe if I spoke better Swahili, I'd have felt better about it. It didn't take long for me to forget the soda and turn around and walk back toward the perceived safety and familiarity of the other white folk.

I am not used to being the minority. But in Africa, that is exactly where I find myself. The novelty of being a celebrity was cool for about five minutes, and then I just got this indescribably awkward circus-attraction feeling. This is probably the feeling some people get in the United States when they visit another part of town or
someone else's church or school.

Enough about the market though.

We're going to show the Jesus film tonight in Jangwani. I'll try to get a picture or something of the screen we built and the crowd. Next week, we're going hunting. I've never hunted before. Might as well start where there are lions and hyenas and cobras. I'm sure I'll have a story to bring back then.

Until then,

jim