Are we at a Miss Tanzania Pageant?

It is really interesting to compare how I am treated in this country when I was living with Chris, the woman, to when I am now living with Chris, the man. The experiences are in some ways polar opposites. For example, when I was living with Chris the woman, we could hardly go anywhere without being approached by someone who was interested in who we were, what we were doing, whether we were married, and whether or not we wanted to marry them (man) or their brother (woman). When Chris the woman and I were together, people wanted to shake our hands, make eye contact when talking, and acknowledge our presence in any way that they could, whether that was screaming our names at the tops of their lungs or gently stroking our noses to tell us how nice they were. When Chris the man and I are together, we are hardly ever approached... by anyone. And if we are, I am virtually ignored.

I thought that this was a locational difference at first... maybe that people were more forward in Zanzibar than on the mainland, but then the other night Chris and I went to this bar where we heard it’s easy to make friends. As long as we were together, it was the same thing. We could have been completely invisible. So we decided to split up for 5 minutes as an experiment. Not 15 seconds after he left his chair to go outside to “make a phone call”, someone sat down across from me and struck up a conversation.

The root of this difference (I think) comes from the fact that everyone assumes that we are married. On an almost daily basis people look at Chris, ask him if I’m his “wifey”, to which he typically says no. If he chooses to say no, they usually deny his negation and reaffirm that I am, in fact, his wife. The conversation usually goes back and forth a few times. “She is your wifey”---“She’s not my wifey”—“She is your wifey”—“She’s not my wifey” until someone tires or he laughs, gives up, and accepts our marriage. The strangest part to me, though, is that all the meanwhile I’m standing there next to him. They never address me, even though I can obviously hear and understand every word. And do they think that he would deny our marriage in front of me if we were actually married? I don’t get it.

The other night this was taken to an extreme, when we accidentally found ourselves at the Miss Iringa, Tanzania pageant and someone approached Chris and asked to take a picture of his “wifey”. I remember staring blankly at the man with the enormous camera, and wondering why he didn’t ask me... ? I think Chris gave permission, but my dagger stares may have inspired him to leave without the picture.

If anyone read that last paragraph and did a double take at around the 17th or 18th word, I just want to reiterate the point that we found ourselves at a Miss Tanzania Pageant... and that this happened by accident. Here’s how the day went:

Chris and I woke up, just a lazy Saturday morning, cooked breakfast, walked into town, went grocery shopping, and decided to rent bikes to ride to this Stone Age site where a bunch of researchers have done a lot of archaeological digs and recovered tons of prehistoric artifacts and skeletons. We rode our bikes, labeled the “Chevrolet”, the 20-25 km to the stone age site. Once there, we walked through a dried-up river bed with enormous stone pilars towering above us and a really nice man named Mohammed telling us all about the history of the area. We were escorted on our bikes back to the nearest village, took a Dalla Dalla back, came home to do laundry, cook, play a board game that we have developed an obsession with (called bao- I will teach anyone who wants to learn).... just normal things. Then, in came our other two house mates. They told us that they had met a man at a bar who said that there was going to be some traditional music being played in town, and that the musician usually danced with snakes... It was kind of expensive, but we decided to go check it out anyways....

When we got there, looking around the audience was like a strange fashion show. Women were dressed up in blue sequened dresses that covered no more than 3 inches of thigh, in little black leather jumpers, and all kinds of fancy outfits. We thought this was strange, but waited it out. About an hour later, the festivities started when 12 girls came out with numbers pasted to their bodies doing crazy, almost stripper-like dancing routines. The MCs came on... and within the first minute of their frantic joke-making, said something about the “Wazungu” (Word for Westerners). Suddenly, everyone in the entire place turned around, looked at us, and burst into laughter. Not shortly after, the girls came out, one by one, described their aspirations in life, explained the meaning of the “traditional”outfits that they had designed, and strutted their stuff. By the time the swimsuit competition and the ball gowns came around, we were sure that we had suffered some sort of miscommunication about the nature of the event to which we had just come. We quietly excused ourselves and returned home.

Upon arrival, we received a text message from someone who was still there saying that we had just missed the most unbelievable contortion artist they had ever seen. Chris just looked at me, wide-eyed, and said, “I think I need to go to bed”.

While our time in town was good (as you can see), I am very happy to be back in the bush camp. There are elephants around basically all the time, and we can definitely get more of our work done here. And we have plenty of time to think about the ridiculous, ridiculous situations that we have gotten ourselves into in the recent past. I’m still afraid of the large animals, and this fear may soon develop into an insomnia of sort.

For example, Chris and my bedtime conversation last night went like this.
Me: “Chris, do you think you’re going to fall asleep soon?”
Chris: “Definitely...Probably in just a few minutes.”
Me: “Really? Even after those scary growling sounds we just heard?”

I find that if I have to get up an pee in the middle of the night, the entire process takes about a half hour to an hour... because I have to first accept the fact that I can’t wait until the morning (at least 20-30 minutes) and then gain the courage to go outside, despite all of the animal noises that you hear (at least 15-20 minutes). Once I actually get up and leave the tent, I swear I’m back inside within 30 seconds. I wonder if this fear will quell after a little more time here, though I’m not hopefull.

Okay, I’m going to get back to work. But there’s so much more to tell you... and I definitely will. Soon.