Living Life, Internationally

Written on Saturday, March 17th. We have since returned safely to Kayanga from Bukoba, and are ready for the second half of the semester.

There are those moments in life when your body is tired, but there is a great opportunity to go out and live a little. Most of the time, I let my body win out and retire early to read a book. Last night, this option was tempting. I could have lain down after a long day of traveling to Bukoba, swimming in a waterfall, crawling in a cave full of bats, and running around a white sand beach. But, I decided to live a little more.

Yesterday, we were told by our tour guide that there would be a bonfire on the beach starting at 9pm. The students were intrigued, especially after hearing that homemade banana beer might make an appearance. Exhaustion and the luring appeal of a comfortable bed stole many of them to sleep early, but Paul, four students, and I decided to go. Joyce, one of the students, was already planning her escape on the way there wondering if it was safe to walk back on her own.

When we arrived we found a small bonfire of bamboo in the middle of the Lake Victoria beach and its chilly sand. There were maybe eight Tanzanians sitting around it speaking in Swahili/Kihaya/Kinyambo. Kihaya is the local language of the Haya tribe, and is very similar to Kinyambo, the mother-tongue spoken back home in Kayanga. We headed to the bar and decided to split a banana spirit (much more official-looking than what we had in mind) and mix it with Fanta Orange. They had only one glass, so we passed the elixir back and forth between us and the conversation started flowing. Another mzungu joined us, a middle-aged man with long raggedy hair. He started speaking Spanish with our student, Juan (from Puerto Rico). We were happy to see Juan in his element; his old roommate John told us this was Juan’s I’m-as-happy-as-a-kid-in-a-candy store moment.

Meanwhile, Joyce had started a conversation with a Tanzanian man in Swahili. As I sat in the middle of Spanish-speaking Juan and Swahili-speaking Joyce, I stared at the fire and dug my feet in the sand thinking of this cosmopolitan bonfire. Juan’s friend had an Italian passport, but hailed from nowhere. Fluent in Italian, Spanish, French, English, and Portuguese, he knew few Swahili words and said there was no more room left in his brain for another language. He was writing a book about traveling without any money (I remain skeptical and doubt I’ll see this book on the shelves). Joyce was talking with a man who had a third grade education, but of course knew Swahili, Kihaya, Luganda (the predominant language of Uganda), and Kinyambo. I drifted in and out of listening to their conversation. Joyce spent thirty minutes trying to convince him of his intelligence and argued that God was not the reason for the economic disparities between Tanzanians and wazungu. He and the mzungu without origin passed a joint between them. The Swahili word for marijuana (bangi) was one of the few words the mzungu had managed to fit in his brain.

Four languages around one bonfire. I wondered… If I had understood the enormity of the world earlier, would I have taken my required language classes more seriously? I feel woefully inadequate when I’m surrounded by people who know at least three languages. But, you argue, English is the best language! It’s global, spoken by many people, and by most Americans. Sure, we are given very few incentives to learn other languages in the States, given our large country with one language and two big oceans to separate us from much of the rest of the world. This must be one of the reasons few Americans choose to leave our borders. It’s difficult to learn a new language, especially as one becomes older, and can be very uncomfortable to be in a place where people can speak without you understanding…. Where was I going with this?

I just know that last night was cool. Surrounded by many languages, I was reminded of the huge expanse of the world. Recently, I posed a question to my Dad. Paul and I have been discussing (arguing?) about where we should do our extended layover on the way home. Egypt or London? Paul wants to be in London during the Summer Olympics, but I want to see the pyramids. I welcomed my father to this discussion and he said, “Caitlin, go to London. Do something normal for once.” Indeed, while many of my friends have been to Europe, I have not yet spent time there, other than in short layovers on my way to east Africa or the States. But, we’re talking about the pyramids! Ah, sijui, I don’t know. I know that even after Paul and I get jobs in the States, I hope to continue traveling and choosing to go to bonfires rather than retire early to read. I always want to be reminded of the vastness of the world and the diversity of people and languages it affords.