What If...

“Ba-Ashley” they announce along with Tonga greetings and big crooked smiles. Ba is for respect, and it’s that which leaves me feeling guilty that their names have slipped my mind as mine slides (not so easily) off their tongue. Ashrey is more like it, since “l” and “r” can be interchanged at any time. There just is no r in Tonga, so praying is the same as playing, and “wrong” is heard as “long”…you get the idea. Lucky for me I can call any woman Baama and she’ll take it with the pride and respect deserved of an African mother, or any mother at that.

The swarm of women sit me down on the ground, legs perpendicular to torso, and straight in line to match the tweed mat on which we park. A flurry of scraps surrounds me, brightly colored trash. Shimmering golden plastic wrappers, mirror –like cellophane from biscuits, crinkles of vibrant blues, oranges, greens, yellows. I would have called it unbearably gaudy and distasteful in my former life, but here my views have changed, decorative beauty being the least of these. Laughing and chatting away, they hand over the crooked sewing needle, threaded by a long sinuous scrap of the mealie-meal bag. The accordion folds add life to the litter and as they teach me their art. And soon enough what once was rubbish is a colorful porcupine-like decoration to hang from their humble home. When you have a mud hut in a place like Nakeempa you need to be truly creative in order to spice up your life. Salt in your nshima just doesn’t do it.

They’re surprised that I can sew, and about 1/10 of what they mutter about me I can understand. They slap my knee and finger my light skin as they enjoy my mere presence since communication ceases in due time. Today it’s my worn out brown crocs that bring the most mirth, so I lend them to the seasoned old woman who slowly and gingerly takes them, but swiftly puts them on her own feet. It might be the most entertaining fashion show I’ve seen yet, as they swallow her up to her bony ankles, kind of like the shoe-name crocodile suggests. She scampers about the dusty path in hysterics. The younger girls look up at their grandmother in hilarity and continue “platting” each others hair. They say it’s my turn next week, and I agree with a wince as I see them pulling and tugging at their friends who are bobble-heads awaiting their modish do. The small children seem to enjoy the idea also as they approach me, but run away in a torrent of giggles after making eye contact and sharing a smile. They always come back though, this time because of the lure of my locks. They’re mesmerized by my “long”, “slippery” hair that gravity pulls all the way down my back, rather than their stiff spiky hair that looks surprised as it shoots out in patches, electrocuted.

Emelda’s tresses are finished and she makes her way inside to her crying infant Brighton, who seems to be wanting the attention I was getting, or maybe just her mother’s breast. It’s baby Brighton who I came to see, but only in the extensive wake (an hour or two) of sitting on the ground origami-like and eating boiled guinea fowl eggs can we begin talking about the real reason for the visit. If I were to explain the relationship, including the history of orphan-hood, guardianship, and the slew of unexpected children, it could take all day. Nevertheless, it was important for me to visit Emelda, the mother of a sick child. Here, if you don’t visit the sick you are a heartless fool, or maybe you just don’t understand the culture. I was trying not to be titled the former, and attempting to build on the latter, so I went.

I love visiting homes, being invited in to experience and share in people’s lives. But there is still a challenging distance, a wall that I keep trying to penetrate month after month. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to knock it down. It’s tough without language and it’s frustrating in a traditional society that doesn’t approve of differences, or change. If tribalism is still so rampant, imagine the faux pas of my more distant, more modern ideas infiltrating.

I enquire about the illness, trying not to be too direct. But like always, questions are answered in the most round about of ways as if I were chasing my tail to get real, unambiguous information. “Sick” can mean an infinite number of things, and here, there is always a chance that it could somehow imply the influence of witchcraft or something else beyond my realm of understanding. But if there are more details swirling around, it’s still unlikely that they’ll gather them up to share with me. So I stop at that, wondering if it’s worth asking more questions.
It’s true what they say about possessiveness. That Africans are overly generous with material things, lending out anything and everything they have (often times to a fault). But it’s their information that they guard with an army of indirect words and a dead bolt lock on their quiet lips as they curl into a “knowing but not telling” smile. We (North Americans) will share our hearts with the lady at the check-out counter, and our frustrations can be word processed for the world to see on blogs such as this. But it’s our things, our precious relics, important and unimportant treasures, and all the other junk (not always) which gets hoarded. Far be it for someone to displace or even handle our stuff with the idea of prodding through with sticky fingers.
My evidence is a case study on myself. Why is it so deeply engrained into me that the lotion sitting on my desk is “mine!” Of course I don’t actually yell that except inside my own head, after finding the bottle half empty upon return to “my room” where “my things” are on “my desk”. Really, it’s not a big deal, but how selfish am I to even care when they share copious amounts of food, and their entire homes with me.

It’s the information which they take to the grave though. And ultimately, I think (in my humble opinion) that this can cause a lot of problems. For example if I knew the reasons for this particular “sickness” or a more complete medical history of the family, maybe I could do more to help. Granted I’m not a nurse (though being here makes me want to become one). However, I can’t help but ask the perpetual “what if” questions. Yet again, I have to remember to push down my pride, my hunger to do and act, and I try desperately to just be. Sit, eat, listen, sleep, repeat. I know I can’t change such deep cultural traits and beliefs. But I still get angry and depressed at the thought of my presence being so frustratingly futile. In the classroom, in the home, seemingly everywhere.

I now know a lot of things which have uncovered both the complexity and reality of life in Nakeempa. I know that the children I teach have no foundation, and therefore, whatever I can impart is still not enough for them to pass. I know that when I leave they’ll still have to kneel down to their elders and submit to beatings. I know that many girls will still get pregnant, and/or married off. I know that I won’t be able to learn enough Tonga to gain many true friends here. I know that many relationships will remain superficial and my true opinions and ideas won’t be realized. I know now that I can’t fix a whole lot of anything, like I had thought when I originally came. I know that my time here will pass and I’ll be forgotten just as so many others who come and go. And mostly I know that I really don’t know a whole lot.

What I know is only more confused every day, and I have to remind myself that giving up isn’t helpful either. Frenetically I try to wave away pessimistic thoughts, to drive away the feelings of hopelessness, and the desire to think futuristically about returning home. But I’ll admit it takes a lot of effort. It’s tempting to do as the days tick by. And honestly it’s sometimes necessary to give in, so that I get through the lowest of lows. But I guess it’s the important lessons in life that require us to exhaust ourselves. That require us to just sit and sew. There are many moments where I feel encouraged and many more where I feel exhausted. So now I’ll have to learn more about the paradox of effortful letting go. Success, happiness, and fulfillment are not to be pursued like the pot of gold at the end of the non-existent rainbow. It’s the rainbow itself that is the treasure which brightens the sky. And only after a murky, heavy rainstorm can each colorful band be illuminated. So my search for the light continues. I chase my tail, but I’m discovering how to appreciate the exercise :).