During the month of August, I had the opportunity to see my host family in Tanga. School was on break and I decided to use my time off to pay them a visit. After our community theatre workshop, instead of heading straight home I booked a bus ticket east, back to the coast, where I had lived with the Lupatu family and received all my training for Peace Corps.
The ride there was pleasant and as I approached Tanga, I began to notice the familiar stretches of sisal plantations. The Usambara Mountains gradually came into view and coconut trees became more and more numerous until they lined both sides of the road. I arrived in Tanga town and stepped off the bus to the sweet, salty air blowing in off the ocean. I booked a hostel with a couple of other volunteers who were also visiting and we spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring the town. During our training we were kept under pretty strict regulations and confined, for the most part, to our host villages. So I had never spent any real time in Tanga town and enjoyed getting to know it.
Tanga town is different than any other town in TZ but it’s difficult to explain how. I think it is just that beautiful coastal culture mixed with the dominance of Islam. It is located directly on the water and streets are dotted with mamas carrying baskets on their heads, selling their catch of the day. There is a small port where you can go and watch the boats unload their imports from Zanzibar and Pemba. Food is different, too. While the national staples of ugali, rice and beans are ever present, the smell of exotic additional curries and coconut dishes waft into the streets from the local restaurants and for about eight cents a street vendor will offer you a grilled octopus tentacle on a toothpick. No matter where you find yourself sauntering through the town, a mosque always seems to be emerging on the next corner and at certain times of the day, the call to prayer dominates the air of the entire town. But besides all that, there is just some intangible, indescribable element that separates Tanga from all the other towns I’ve visited. Perhaps it was the intriguing way the women whisk by in their baibuis (we know them as burkas), nothing exposed but mysterious eyes and hands and feet decorated with intricate henna designs. In some ways it seemed to lack the typical chaotic racket of other Tanzanian towns although the same street vendors hawk their wares while the same daladala conductors hustle you to buy a ticket. Or maybe it was the architecture- old, crumbling and German-influenced from the days of colonialism, the two story buildings with wrought iron balconies briefly bringing to mind the French Quarter down in NOLA. Regardless, I fell in love. Being there solidified, once more, my love for the Tanzanian coast and I hope someday to visit again.
Of course, that’s how all Texans dress, right?
After a night in town, I awoke excited. I headed to the bus stand to find a daladala going to my family’s village but not before making a quick stop at the soko (market) to pick out the perfect gift. In TZ, one does not visit relatives empty handed, it would be considered the height of rudeness. I shopped around a bit before deciding on a robust-looking rooster. I made the purchase and the old man who sold it to me was thoughtful enough to stick it in a plastic bag with a hole poked in it for the chicken’s head. That way, I could take it on the daladala without disapproving looks from the conductor. I hopped on the next daladala bound for the village of Lusanga and was on my way.
Another volunteer, Amanda, and I with our the gifts we picked out for our host families
Reuniting with my host family was unforgettable- the hugs, the laughter and the incessant chatter of catching up. I was surprised to see that my little brother, Kombo, had shot up a solid five inches but relieved to see that the littlest sister, Saumu, hadn’t changed a bit, but remained the sweet, shy girl I had remembered. My other host sisters, Fatuma, Ashura and Bahati-all young women-were dying to know what I had been up to since they had seen me last. Mama Lupatu was exactly how I had always remembered her- enormous and sprawled out on a woven grass mat in the courtyard. For a second, I wondered if she had moved or even changed positions since last August. Many stories were exchanged. After all, it had been a year since we had last seen one another. I did my best to answer all their questions about Singida, some of which were so bizarre you would have thought they had just assumed I moved to Mars (yes, children in Singida go to schools). The best part was being able to converse genuinely and candidly. When I had left to move out to Singida, I felt very close to my host family but had not yet acquired Swahili skills adequate enough to talk freely. Upon visiting them, however, I was able to tell them all about my new life and all the experiences from the past year. We laughed about the funny times we had misunderstood one another during homestay and they caught my up on the latest village gossip. At one point while my mama busied herself inside, Bahati and Fatuma, even whispered to me all about their boyfriends! I had no idea!
The littlest of my host sisters, Saumu, grating coconut for our evening meal
My beautiful sister, Bahati. (I told Joe he should marry her. He said if she converted to Christianity, he would consider it.)
My host mama, Mama Lupatu, assuming her usual position in the courtyard and trying her hand at applying henna to little Cheusi, technically, my host family cousin?
- Little Cheusi wondering how long she has to wait with that stuff on her hand.
I also got henna’d up in Tanga. In predominantly Muslim communities, women apply henna to their bodies for significant events, weddings, births, etc. Mama Lupatu suggested during my stay that I have some henna done. I agreed. The young girl who offered the service was quite the artist and went to town. I left Lusanga with my hands, feet, arms and legs covered ornately in black and rust-colored designs. She tried to do my chest and back, too, but after sitting still for over five hours, I had to draw the line somewhere and politely declined. Her work was beautiful and I was so excited to show it off back in Singida.
Trying not to fidget like a six-year old while I get my henna done.
She did a great job! It lasted about a month and everyone in Singida loved it.
The last day, I said goodbye and there were more hugs and promises to call, write and visit again. I was so happy to have come and overwhelmed by the warm welcome. I realized just how much the Lupatu family had done for me and how much I cared for them. I welcomed them to Singida and got back on the bus with a basketful of oranges they had given to me as a gift.
