They call it a language barrier. It makes me think of a wall. But I’m noticing holes in the wall that I can look through. Not only am I learning Swahili itself, but ways to get around that barrier as well, i.e. humor, gestures, openness, love. I’m learning how I can use their use of English to help my Swahili, too.
For example: whenever someone is leaving me quickly they say to me, “I am coming!” this bugs the heck out of me because, in my semi-practical mind, I think, “What the heck no you’re not!” as they run away. From it, though, I know that if I am leaving and coming right back to someone, instead of saying Nitarudi which is like saying “I’m coming back” in English, I should say Ninakuja, “I am coming.” I can’t just translate language, I have to translate culture too. So, even though it drives me crazy, I understand that to them it actually makes perfect sense. And instead of saying “I’m going to get my bag,” in Swahili, I will say “I’m going to take my bag” because they use the word chukuwa not pata. Being the outside culture, we of course have many moments when we mess things up. Culturally: not using the respectful form of “what” when we’re called. Language…ly (is that a word?): the other day I told our house guard that my dad had 20 children. I was meaning to clarify that his dad had 20 children. But, I finally got someone else to say something we could all laugh at. My sister, Lucy, was joking about Krista and I having our house brothers as boyfriends (she’s 16). But, when she pointed to Liza, our guard, I said, "Yours??" She nodded her head and happily said yes. We burst up laughing. She was pretty defensive and embarrassed when someone explained it to her.
Last week all of the house parents of us Whitworth students planned a surprise lunch. Took us two hours away to the base of Mt. Killimanjaro. We all thought we were going to town. But, while there, a baby went to the bathroom on a lady, later I found out it wasn’t even her baby. But, back home, my nine-year-old sister says, “Madam Ashley, do you remember when that baby polluted on that lady??” and laughed her head off. I guess if I want to say the “urinated” I should look up the word for “polluted.” Jamba, which means to fart, she described as, “when you pollute the air.” We explained the many ways to say it in America. Pass gas, cut the cheese, farting, of course. Yes, we’re a close family, even despite language barriers, thanks to language helpers.
Because we are so close to these people, this family, this week is more bitter than sweet. Yes, I’m excited about our Spring Break trip to the game parks and the new adventure coming in Dar-es-Salaam. But I’m not excited to leave this family. I’ve reached the point where I can tell them if I don’t like something and not feel uncomfortable about it. Where I can get the coffee and sugar out myself. Where I can wash my clothes without their help. I’ve reached the point where I’m comfortably at home. For goodness sakes, we’ve talked about farting. There’s no going back after that. (So I guess you’re all my best friends now.) My experience with the home-stay is incomparable. It’s helped my language, my understanding. It’s given Africans and name and face, from Zanzibar it’s given Muslims a name and face. Faces and names close to my heart. I know that in Dar there will again be awkwardness and uncertainty, but I feel like I will be able to handle it better.
It’s helped me be able to think of all people around the world in a personal way. Instead of just being beings in other places, they are personalities, stories, likes and dislikes. They have senses of humor. Boy, do they have senses of humor. Before coming here I wondered if their humor would be anything like mine. And, if you know me, it’s pretty strange. But guess what I found, more of me! My house sister, Lucy, and I greet each other in as low of voices as possible. Leticia walks around repeating words in strange voices. We taught Liza the word puppy and now at night we hear him saying, “puppy, puppy, puppy” in a high pitch voice to the new mbwa mdogo, little dog. I, of course, am obsessed with the puppy, but I cant show it too much affection because, in reality, it’s only a dot. The only one with a name out of the three now. Its name is Puppy.
I could tell you so much about each person. My four brothers, four sisters and Mama and Baba. A 2 year-old, 9 year-old, 16 year-old, three 21 year-olds and a 24 year-old. Fredi, who is 21, surprises us with his humor. The power went out the other night again so Krista and I took our flashlights out of our rooms to help. We decided to wait in the dark in the living room rather than our bedroom. To entertain ourselves, we began “singing,” true singing requires talent. After the lights came back on, Fredi came in and looked at us like we were freaks. Standing in front of us he raised his hands up, palms facing us, and said, “Start.”
Start what?
“Singing. I am the conductor.” And he continued to mimic the movements of a person who actually has control of their choir. It reminded me of the time he came into the house, Krista and I were reading on the couch. He stood in front of us, poised to do, something.
“Today,” he began, “I am the preacher.”
Okay…
Then he rambled on about something that truly only God knows. Then he looked at me, looked at Krista, looked back at me. His hands were out as if a large ball was going to be thrown to him and he smiled like he knew he was going to catch it.
Umm.. “Ndio!” (yes) I said.
He closed his book and happily strutted to his room. We have no idea what happened. Sometimes Fredi is just, Fredi.
Judy’s always helping us translate things. Alfonzi is always getting in trouble then running to another adult in the house to cherish him. That baby is always so wronged. Esta is our favorite to talk to, even though she knows close to no English. She teachers us to cook, clean, and she just likes to be with us. Fortu works and asks what gifts we’re going to give him. He is a kind man. Mama works long days as a journalist. She comes and checks on us if we’re not feeling well. And when Baba is going on a rant before prayer and its late, she’ll kneel down to pray in the middle of his talking as if to say “I’m tired, stop talking now.” Baba’s nightly talks vary from being funny to serious to simple, like who is going to cook the next day. But, because he is so animated, the family normally ends up laughing at him, even when his face is completely straight and serious. Him and his swimming trunks, not a man to be reckoned with. Even though the traffic is crazy here, and our Baba is a speeder and weaver (I’m sure my mom is happy to hear that) I feel safe in his car. His ambition in life shows in his driving, and I appreciate that. And I think it’s fun.
I think that’s a snippet of everyone. See, they’re real people. The way they’ve taken Krista and I in is beyond me. It makes me want to open my house and life up to students of the world when I am older and able to. Nice thing, I’d have the understanding of what they’re going through.
They keep asking when we’re going to come back, why we have to go. I’m with a group, I tell them. My family is in America. I wish I could tell them I will be back in a few months. But only God knows. That’s a huge question. When will I be back? A year? Five? Ten? That’s a depressing thought.
I’m at peace though. The future is exciting. Today I live and interact with the people I meet on the streets. I live with my family. Next week I’ll get a whole lot of pictures of elephants, lions and the like (and finish my policy paper, sometimes I forget I’m actually in school). Next month, I’ll have a new environment to get used to. I’ll finish school, I’ll take my final tests. In two months, I’ll be seeing you all.
I was thinking how I’m going to go from summer to summer, sun to sun. But then reality hit me; it’s Spokane. Who wants to be my plane will be delayed by snow?
No comments:
Post a Comment