A Tanzanian Party

I understand that most people are coming to this blog for stories from Tanzania so there are two posts this week. The first is something I just felt like writing and was probably brought on by post-college nostalgia. Also, I’m about to go through a entire football season without seeing a single game for the first time in five years (that’s right, went to one Bronwen’s freshman year) and miss The Game (Fight Fiercely) which I can only imagine will be a continuing pattern in my adult life. Alas. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The following was written in my journal on September 8^th, my last night with my homestay family before I traveled to Dar Es Salaam and swore in at the ambassador’s residence. I lived with my homestay family in Korogwe, Tanga Region for two months. During that time I learned Kiswahili, how to eat with my hands, Tanzanian culture, the art of butchering a chicken, and how strange I am to Tanzanians.

A Tanzanian Party:

• The Tanzanian Party starts 30 min to an hour late. Awkward pre-party schmoozing involves you standing in the middle of a room of seated Tanzanian women looking at a pile of un-inflated balloons and un-hung streamers. Sideways comments you can’t understand are made about your facial hair. The power is out so you use the stereo as a chair.
• The party is official as you take your seat at the front of the room, facing your guests. Guests of honor sit at your table but everyone else sits on a chair or the floor facing you. All the neighborhood children sit jostled together at your feet.
• Approximately 30 min of pictures are taken following no discernible order or pattern; the only constant is the presence of a baby in your arms. As your mama approaches, you are first exposed to the “mama song.” It is sung every time you mother comes to the front table. During a photo, you notice this is the first time your mama has hugged you and is, therefore, the first physical, human contact you have made in two months and five days. Unfortunately, this trend will continue long after homestay.
• Your dad shows up to take a picture and then immediately leaves, after which you realize there are no men at your party.
• You are introduced by your mama and the M.C. (a must for all Tanzanian Shindigs) asks you to sing a song. After panicked deliberation, you and your guest of honor sing “Happy Birthday Tanzania.”
• The M.C. asks you to say a prayer, which your guest of honor graciously handles, apparently an old pro.
• The front table is presented with two dish sized cakes. Major points are scored by the women who know how to bake.
• You and your guest of honor are commanded to cut the cakes holding hands. The room erupts into “Cut the Keki Today,” sung to “Happy Birthday to You.” You try not to lose your shit. You and your family and friends are made to feed each other cake with toothpicks; etiquette with eye contact is uncertain. You lose your shit. Pictures are taken.
• Your mama approaches with your gift, prompting another round of the “mama song.” It is a collarless shirt-dress of magenta fringed with vibrant green and blue Indian fringing.
• The cake is taken to the kitchen. All of the floor children make A Sound as it is lead away. If you are alone, stick your tongue out and suck in as you run it back and forth against your mouth; this is The Sound a room full of children spontaneously made.
• The M.C. checks his itinerary and begins to sing a four minute song about Jesus. My neighborhood is Muslim. No one appears to mind.
• You give your family gifts, which they love. The personal note you wrote is passed around the room to be read by all of the guests. Apparently, if something is worth doing in Tanzania, it’s worth doing in public. Positive comments are made on the quality of your Kiswahili.
• Guests come up to the front table, put gifts of money into a handkerchief-covered bowl and curtsy.
• Food is served from 5 gallon buckets in your kitchen. Mamas have been cooking outside of your house all afternoon which, you learn, they do because your mama is a good neighbor. Adults eat first and the remaining food is taken outside on a large platter for the children to eat in the dirt. Like animals. Seriously, you go to take a look and it’s like a hog farm.
• Soda is distributed to adult guests and favored children. You notice a baby sitting alone on the floor, his or her face eclipsed by a bowl, streaming rice. He is none too pleased when his mama begins to clean up the mess.
• The children rush out the door, leaving the floor covered with food which the remaining guests sweep of the tile. The party has quickly come to a close.
• The return of electricity brings with it an impromptu, nighttime dance party. Your family proves their speaker system can bump and your twelve year old brother Juma proves he can dance like M.J. Floor children flood out of the night, back into your house; Attempts at small talk are made and you assure more than one child that, although you are from California, you do not know Arnold. As you watch Hassani choke-slam another little boy onto the tile, slowly but with purpose, you feel the overwhelming welcome, confusion, and unpredictability that defined your homestay and you decide there is no better way to cap it off than with a Tanzanian Party.
• You proceed to talk to your mama on the phone every weekend.