(1 - Bets and I with the lake & Mt. Hanang behind, 2 - where our salt comes from...)
Taste of Orlando
8 years ago
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thanksgiving Photos
(1 - me taking it to the chicken, 2 - Betsy hesitating before the kill, 3 - Betsy reveling in the kill, 4 - the FEAST!)
Monday, December 14, 2009
These white people not know to cut the pumpkin
Today started off like every day in Tanzania, where we woke up feeling a bit ill, and not wanting to go too far from the choo (toilet). Although not that unusual, it was especially bad because Regina, one of my research assistants, had invited us to her house to meet her parents and see their farm. We both decided that we weren’t feeling up to it, and would tell her we couldn’t go. She doesn’t have a phone, so we had to wait until she came to our house to pick us up. When she got here, she was wearing a new dress and new shoes. She was so excited we didn’t have the heart to bail on her, so we grabbed some TP and the camera and headed on our way.
Regina had told us her house was about a half an hour walk from Haydom, so we thought this would be a fun little morning trip. When we started on our way, she looked at my watch, and seeing that it was 11:15, said that we would be there by noon. Ryan and I both sighed, not wanting to walk too far with questionable bowels, but set off on our hike. We walked ….and walked….and walked….past the secondary school that we drove to for the study, past one of the villages we interviewed in to get a comparison to Haydom, past 2 rivers, and finally arrived at her parents house at 12:45.
When we got there, her mother, father and countless siblings (she is the second oldest of 12, her youngest brother is 5 months old, 2 months younger than Regina’s own baby) greeted us with open arms. They had prepared a pumpkin, one of the staple foods in the area, and wanted to teach us how to cook pumpkin ugali (kind of like polenta). Ryan and I have decided that Tanzanians generally think we are semi-retarded. Their logic goes that since we don’t know how to cook ugali, the most basic and easy food here, that we must not know how to cook anything else either. Regina started the lesson by showing us how to cut up the pumpkin into chunks. When I offered to help her, she gave me a look that said, “I’m not sure you can manage this without major injury” and handed me a knife. I’ll admit I wasn’t that adept at squatting and cutting up a hard pumpkin placed on a tarp on the ground. In my defense, the knife she handed me was truly the world’s dullest knife, where you couldn’t really tell which side of it was the sharpened one. The family that we live with lets the local herd of toddlers play with sharper knives (more on that later). Everyone thought it was hilarious to watch the mzungu mangle the pumpkin, prompting her mother to observe, “These white people not know to cut the pumpkin! Hahaha!”. Gee, thanks.
While the pumpkin was cooking, Regina’s father took us on a tour of the farm. We saw where the goats sleep (in the room adjacent to where the people sleep), the cow pen (a circle of acacia limbs), and how to feed chickens (yell “kuku kuku kuku” and toss corn at them). Regina said that they are able to grow all the food her family needs as well as all the feed for the animals, and never have to buy anything. Albeit, they only eat maize, eggs, beans, greens and milk most of the time.
After the pumpkin cooked and mixed with maize flour and a dash of oil it was ready to eat. Basically, you roll a ball of ugali dough, then dip it in whatever sauce comes with it. Today it was melted animal fat. Ryan and I tried one dip, both gagged a little, and then stuck to the plain ugali. As far as ugali goes, pumpkin ugali is pretty good – meaning that we wouldn’t touch it with a 10 foot pole in the states, but after walking for an hour and a half on an empty stomach it was edible, which is more than can be said for regular ugali. They also gave us fresh milk for lunch. This sounds wonderful and quaint, but if you’ve never tried fresh milk, there’s a reason we don’t drink it in the states. It’s sour, and has chucks on curdled fat floating on top. Unfortunately, a storm was rolling in, and we had an hour and a half walk ahead of us. As we were left, Regina’s parents gave us some fresh eggs and told us “karibu tena” (welcome again!). We hurried back as quickly as possible to Haydom, and straight to Samjo, our favorite restaurant for some meat and rice, and to get the taste of curdled milk out of our mouths.
-Betsy
Regina had told us her house was about a half an hour walk from Haydom, so we thought this would be a fun little morning trip. When we started on our way, she looked at my watch, and seeing that it was 11:15, said that we would be there by noon. Ryan and I both sighed, not wanting to walk too far with questionable bowels, but set off on our hike. We walked ….and walked….and walked….past the secondary school that we drove to for the study, past one of the villages we interviewed in to get a comparison to Haydom, past 2 rivers, and finally arrived at her parents house at 12:45.
When we got there, her mother, father and countless siblings (she is the second oldest of 12, her youngest brother is 5 months old, 2 months younger than Regina’s own baby) greeted us with open arms. They had prepared a pumpkin, one of the staple foods in the area, and wanted to teach us how to cook pumpkin ugali (kind of like polenta). Ryan and I have decided that Tanzanians generally think we are semi-retarded. Their logic goes that since we don’t know how to cook ugali, the most basic and easy food here, that we must not know how to cook anything else either. Regina started the lesson by showing us how to cut up the pumpkin into chunks. When I offered to help her, she gave me a look that said, “I’m not sure you can manage this without major injury” and handed me a knife. I’ll admit I wasn’t that adept at squatting and cutting up a hard pumpkin placed on a tarp on the ground. In my defense, the knife she handed me was truly the world’s dullest knife, where you couldn’t really tell which side of it was the sharpened one. The family that we live with lets the local herd of toddlers play with sharper knives (more on that later). Everyone thought it was hilarious to watch the mzungu mangle the pumpkin, prompting her mother to observe, “These white people not know to cut the pumpkin! Hahaha!”. Gee, thanks.
While the pumpkin was cooking, Regina’s father took us on a tour of the farm. We saw where the goats sleep (in the room adjacent to where the people sleep), the cow pen (a circle of acacia limbs), and how to feed chickens (yell “kuku kuku kuku” and toss corn at them). Regina said that they are able to grow all the food her family needs as well as all the feed for the animals, and never have to buy anything. Albeit, they only eat maize, eggs, beans, greens and milk most of the time.
After the pumpkin cooked and mixed with maize flour and a dash of oil it was ready to eat. Basically, you roll a ball of ugali dough, then dip it in whatever sauce comes with it. Today it was melted animal fat. Ryan and I tried one dip, both gagged a little, and then stuck to the plain ugali. As far as ugali goes, pumpkin ugali is pretty good – meaning that we wouldn’t touch it with a 10 foot pole in the states, but after walking for an hour and a half on an empty stomach it was edible, which is more than can be said for regular ugali. They also gave us fresh milk for lunch. This sounds wonderful and quaint, but if you’ve never tried fresh milk, there’s a reason we don’t drink it in the states. It’s sour, and has chucks on curdled fat floating on top. Unfortunately, a storm was rolling in, and we had an hour and a half walk ahead of us. As we were left, Regina’s parents gave us some fresh eggs and told us “karibu tena” (welcome again!). We hurried back as quickly as possible to Haydom, and straight to Samjo, our favorite restaurant for some meat and rice, and to get the taste of curdled milk out of our mouths.
-Betsy
Monday, December 7, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Chickening Out
Happy (belated) Thanksgiving! Ryan and I decided to celebrate Turkey Day by buying the family some chickens, and helping them cook a pseudo-Thanksgiving meal of chicken, potatoes, rice, and banana bread. There aren’t any turkeys in Haydom, so we had to settle for chickens. They are very expensive for most people here, so it was a special treat.
Relatives from the country had given them two chickens, but being Americans, and this being Thanksgiving, we decided that two chickens were definitely not enough for 17 people. We headed to the market with Lucy, one of the kids, to pick up three more. Word had gotten out that the wazungu wanted chickens, and a few steps outside of our gate we were met by people with armloads of chickens ready to sell. Lucy bargained for us, and $12 later, we were the proud owners of three live chickens.
That afternoon, we invited our friend and research assistant, Prisca, over to help us cook and to have Thanksgiving dinner. We started by making banana bread. I didn’t have a recipe, or measuring cups, or really any idea what I was doing, so I just started mixing flour, eggs, sugar, oil and bananas in a bowl. When it looked remotely like banana bread dough, I scooped it into a loaf pan, and stuck it in the oven. The ‘oven’ is a wood burning stove, with a chamber for baking, so there no telling how hot it is or if the temp is constant, so I just put it in and hoped for the best. While the bread was baking, we decided it was time to ‘deal’ with the chickens.
The family was convinced that two chickens were enough for everyone. These are scrawny, natural, African chickens, that spend their lives running around scavenging for food, not big plump American chickens who spend their lives getting fat and juicy. There was no way two chickens were enough, so we compromised and settled on three. With a parade of kids behind us, we grabbed a (rather dull) kitchen knife, and headed out back. Ryan and I had made a pact that if we were going to eat the chickens, we would each kill one, but neither one of us really knew how to go about doing it. Prisca (wearing nice shoes, a tailored dress, and perfectly braided hair) however, got right in there, and taught us to stand on the wings with one foot, their legs with the other, then grab their head and pull it back with one hand, and slit their throat with the kitchen knife, then hold it until it bled out and stopped flopping. At this point, I decided I was just going to have potatoes for dinner, and I was fine with that.
Ryan was up next, and without hesitating, positioned the chicken, and with Prisca cheering him on, started cutting. It seized, it flopped, and it bled just like it was supposed to. Two down, one to go….my turn. Ryan handed me the bloody knife, and I was on my way to vegetarianism. I begged and pleaded. I said I just wanted potatoes for dinner. I said I’d lived for 27 years having other people kill my meat for me, I didn’t see any reason to change. But Ryan, Prisca, and the kids wouldn’t back down. They were all teasing and laughing at me, and finally, my pride got the better of me, and I decided to go for it! I stood on its wings and its legs, but couldn’t bring myself to hold the head. Emanueli, one of the kids, held the head back for me, and with Ryan, Prisca, and all the kids cheering for me, I got in the zone, and cut its throat. It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, the chicken died a rather painless death, and probably had a better life than most of the chicken I eat in the states. However, I will forever be thankful for Hy-vee and its saran-wrapped boneless skinless chicken breasts.
Turns out that killing the chickens is just the beginning of the work. Next, they are dunked in boiling water and plucked. We found out is that rubber chickens look amazingly like the real thing. Who knew? Then we seared them over the fire to burn off any remaining fluff, and we washed them, cut their necks more cleanly, and cut off their feet. Simba, the family puppy, was one lucky dog, and ended up eating all three chicken heads and some of the feet. Then he passed out, in a puppy version of the Thanksgiving turkey-coma.
When it was time to cut them up into pieces, Prisca again got right in there and started hacking. It was really more of a biology lesson for Ryan and me. We learned what eggs look like inside the chicken (they look like yolks), that the gizzard really is full of pebbles, and that unless they are American freak chickens, they don’t really have much breast meat.
That night, the family invited us over to their house, and we all sat down together for our feast. Three chickens actually make an amazing amount of meat, especially when you use ALL of them. Two chickens probably would have been enough, but three allowed it to feel like Thanksgiving, where no one worried about taking more than their share. We had broth from the chickens to put over rice, boiled potatoes, and banana brick. I forgot to put any sort of rising agent into it, so it was a bit dense. Besides being a masonry material, it was acutally pretty good. Being polite Tanzanians, they all said they loved the bread and wanted the recipe (but then they started talking in Iraqw, so who knows what they actually said about it.) At the end of the meal, we were all full and happy (tumeshiba sana).
We’re thinking about getting a goat for Christmas….
-Betsy
Relatives from the country had given them two chickens, but being Americans, and this being Thanksgiving, we decided that two chickens were definitely not enough for 17 people. We headed to the market with Lucy, one of the kids, to pick up three more. Word had gotten out that the wazungu wanted chickens, and a few steps outside of our gate we were met by people with armloads of chickens ready to sell. Lucy bargained for us, and $12 later, we were the proud owners of three live chickens.
That afternoon, we invited our friend and research assistant, Prisca, over to help us cook and to have Thanksgiving dinner. We started by making banana bread. I didn’t have a recipe, or measuring cups, or really any idea what I was doing, so I just started mixing flour, eggs, sugar, oil and bananas in a bowl. When it looked remotely like banana bread dough, I scooped it into a loaf pan, and stuck it in the oven. The ‘oven’ is a wood burning stove, with a chamber for baking, so there no telling how hot it is or if the temp is constant, so I just put it in and hoped for the best. While the bread was baking, we decided it was time to ‘deal’ with the chickens.
The family was convinced that two chickens were enough for everyone. These are scrawny, natural, African chickens, that spend their lives running around scavenging for food, not big plump American chickens who spend their lives getting fat and juicy. There was no way two chickens were enough, so we compromised and settled on three. With a parade of kids behind us, we grabbed a (rather dull) kitchen knife, and headed out back. Ryan and I had made a pact that if we were going to eat the chickens, we would each kill one, but neither one of us really knew how to go about doing it. Prisca (wearing nice shoes, a tailored dress, and perfectly braided hair) however, got right in there, and taught us to stand on the wings with one foot, their legs with the other, then grab their head and pull it back with one hand, and slit their throat with the kitchen knife, then hold it until it bled out and stopped flopping. At this point, I decided I was just going to have potatoes for dinner, and I was fine with that.
Ryan was up next, and without hesitating, positioned the chicken, and with Prisca cheering him on, started cutting. It seized, it flopped, and it bled just like it was supposed to. Two down, one to go….my turn. Ryan handed me the bloody knife, and I was on my way to vegetarianism. I begged and pleaded. I said I just wanted potatoes for dinner. I said I’d lived for 27 years having other people kill my meat for me, I didn’t see any reason to change. But Ryan, Prisca, and the kids wouldn’t back down. They were all teasing and laughing at me, and finally, my pride got the better of me, and I decided to go for it! I stood on its wings and its legs, but couldn’t bring myself to hold the head. Emanueli, one of the kids, held the head back for me, and with Ryan, Prisca, and all the kids cheering for me, I got in the zone, and cut its throat. It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, the chicken died a rather painless death, and probably had a better life than most of the chicken I eat in the states. However, I will forever be thankful for Hy-vee and its saran-wrapped boneless skinless chicken breasts.
Turns out that killing the chickens is just the beginning of the work. Next, they are dunked in boiling water and plucked. We found out is that rubber chickens look amazingly like the real thing. Who knew? Then we seared them over the fire to burn off any remaining fluff, and we washed them, cut their necks more cleanly, and cut off their feet. Simba, the family puppy, was one lucky dog, and ended up eating all three chicken heads and some of the feet. Then he passed out, in a puppy version of the Thanksgiving turkey-coma.
When it was time to cut them up into pieces, Prisca again got right in there and started hacking. It was really more of a biology lesson for Ryan and me. We learned what eggs look like inside the chicken (they look like yolks), that the gizzard really is full of pebbles, and that unless they are American freak chickens, they don’t really have much breast meat.
That night, the family invited us over to their house, and we all sat down together for our feast. Three chickens actually make an amazing amount of meat, especially when you use ALL of them. Two chickens probably would have been enough, but three allowed it to feel like Thanksgiving, where no one worried about taking more than their share. We had broth from the chickens to put over rice, boiled potatoes, and banana brick. I forgot to put any sort of rising agent into it, so it was a bit dense. Besides being a masonry material, it was acutally pretty good. Being polite Tanzanians, they all said they loved the bread and wanted the recipe (but then they started talking in Iraqw, so who knows what they actually said about it.) At the end of the meal, we were all full and happy (tumeshiba sana).
We’re thinking about getting a goat for Christmas….
-Betsy
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Witchy Woman
We’ve figured out some of the sounds Tanzanians feel represent the local wildlife; I feel the most interesting of descriptive sounds to me is the bee. Apparently, Tanzanians think that instead of bees “buzzing”, as Americans would assume, they produce a “sucking” sound; which is best described as the sound you would make sucking on a dry straw. This isn’t a bad thing, just a strange observation that I happened to remember this morning.
Also, we have met some friends; well I have more or less from playing futbol on Tuesdays and Fridays at the hospital. They’re all Europeans but they sort of share our culture, sort of. We coaxed them into meeting up with us at our favorite restaurant, Green View Garden Restaurant. Well, the Green View definitely doesn’t have any green “views” nor does it have a garden. We think it should be called, Cell Tower View Concrete Restaurant, that’s the best description one could make. View or not, it’s the best place in town so we are regulars, John, the owner and Jacob, the maître d' restaurant, are great! Anyway, we met up for a drink with our new Euro-friends this past weekend; Green View is also the only place in town with wine. Well, this wine thing was a spectacle to say the least, luckily they actually had wine glasses to drink from but had a smaller wine glass in which they actually measured the drinks. Jacob came out with the box of wine and the small glass to measure out the glasses one by one, it was quite an experience. By the end of the night, Jacob was falling over drunk (literally); Betsy and I figured he was getting drunk because we bankroll their restaurant so they could afford a drink or seven. On a side note to drinking I’ve noticed that when I drink Castle Lager, my favorite beer here although I probably wouldn’t drink it back home, my ears begin palpitating. We were trying to figure out why this happens, the jury is still out, so if any of you have any ideas, I’d be open to hearing them.
The next morning I decided, since Betsy had recently had a dress tailored, that I would get a nice button down shirt tailored myself. We went into a local tailor that specializes in men’s clothing and had them take my measurements. They said to return in four days and the shirt would be ready. Four days came and it was time to return for my newly tailored shirt or garbage bag, whatever you want to call it. I tried it on and felt as if they took my measurements in centimeters and cut the fabric in inches, the shirt was HUGE! Also, the arms were about two inches too short so we tried to get them to take it in and decided the sleeves were ruined; we had them convert it into a short-sleever. I’ll keep you updated with this but I plan on having a suit tailored while I’m here, should be an interesting process, especially since it will be in local fabric…
To adequately describe the type of care people receive from the hospital here is hard to pin-point. Seems as though the “western” doctors that are here do a fine job but some of the local health-professionals are somewhat lacking. Regina’s (our female research assistant) boyfriend was having what we thought were epileptic seizures, hence one would diagnose him with epilepsy, not here. Apparently, he’s not taking any medication for his episodes, which I’m pretty sure is not a good thing, because the doctor he visited told him it was the work of a witch. They ran tests on him, which were inconclusive, so their only explanation was that someone in Haydom is apparently performing hostile witch-craft towards him. We thought it weird to hear from a hospital, albeit in rural Africa, staffed with western doctors.
Hope all is well back in the States and that everyone had a great Thanksgiving free of witch-craft and hob-goblins!
-Ryan
Also, we have met some friends; well I have more or less from playing futbol on Tuesdays and Fridays at the hospital. They’re all Europeans but they sort of share our culture, sort of. We coaxed them into meeting up with us at our favorite restaurant, Green View Garden Restaurant. Well, the Green View definitely doesn’t have any green “views” nor does it have a garden. We think it should be called, Cell Tower View Concrete Restaurant, that’s the best description one could make. View or not, it’s the best place in town so we are regulars, John, the owner and Jacob, the maître d' restaurant, are great! Anyway, we met up for a drink with our new Euro-friends this past weekend; Green View is also the only place in town with wine. Well, this wine thing was a spectacle to say the least, luckily they actually had wine glasses to drink from but had a smaller wine glass in which they actually measured the drinks. Jacob came out with the box of wine and the small glass to measure out the glasses one by one, it was quite an experience. By the end of the night, Jacob was falling over drunk (literally); Betsy and I figured he was getting drunk because we bankroll their restaurant so they could afford a drink or seven. On a side note to drinking I’ve noticed that when I drink Castle Lager, my favorite beer here although I probably wouldn’t drink it back home, my ears begin palpitating. We were trying to figure out why this happens, the jury is still out, so if any of you have any ideas, I’d be open to hearing them.
The next morning I decided, since Betsy had recently had a dress tailored, that I would get a nice button down shirt tailored myself. We went into a local tailor that specializes in men’s clothing and had them take my measurements. They said to return in four days and the shirt would be ready. Four days came and it was time to return for my newly tailored shirt or garbage bag, whatever you want to call it. I tried it on and felt as if they took my measurements in centimeters and cut the fabric in inches, the shirt was HUGE! Also, the arms were about two inches too short so we tried to get them to take it in and decided the sleeves were ruined; we had them convert it into a short-sleever. I’ll keep you updated with this but I plan on having a suit tailored while I’m here, should be an interesting process, especially since it will be in local fabric…
To adequately describe the type of care people receive from the hospital here is hard to pin-point. Seems as though the “western” doctors that are here do a fine job but some of the local health-professionals are somewhat lacking. Regina’s (our female research assistant) boyfriend was having what we thought were epileptic seizures, hence one would diagnose him with epilepsy, not here. Apparently, he’s not taking any medication for his episodes, which I’m pretty sure is not a good thing, because the doctor he visited told him it was the work of a witch. They ran tests on him, which were inconclusive, so their only explanation was that someone in Haydom is apparently performing hostile witch-craft towards him. We thought it weird to hear from a hospital, albeit in rural Africa, staffed with western doctors.
Hope all is well back in the States and that everyone had a great Thanksgiving free of witch-craft and hob-goblins!
-Ryan
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