I wrote this back in January, right after we got back from our trip to the Arusha market. I would maybe be able to handle what happened now a lot better then I did then, but it is still stressful even reading it. I decided to post it and then my response I wrote the other night while avoiding a paper. Enjoy! It is written a lot like a journal entry, and I apologize for bad grammar or odd spellings... Just think of it in the context that I am extremely creative or something like that. :P
The market was crowded and dusty smelling. The heat beat mercerlously down and reminded me of the
hottest days of summer. The moment we stepped off the dala we were spectacles.
Stares from all directions we fallowed our guide quickly into the collection of
fabric stores. Like mosquitoes to a light they were upon us. Pushing this way
and that “madam, Madam, I give you good
price!” With a hand on my shoulder one man pushed cajolingly “ Hey madam, good
fabric special price!” “Hey madam!” The sound was deafening, the barrage of
market men over whelming and my heart began to pound as I indecisively clung to
one person or another in my group trying to make my already awful decision making
skills help me pick something without being ripped off. Due to inflation the
prices were fairly cheap regardless of what I was suppose to buy, I was told
that kitenges for making dresses could be anywhere from 10-40 thousand
shillings, but the merchants would try to rip you off as much as he could... I am still becoming accustomed to the idea
that prices are barganable, but I am not sure when it is exactly appropriate
and I feel very uneducated in my idea of looking for quality things. And being
pushed in so many directions by merchants doesn’t help. I finally chose a blue fabric that I loved,
though the man was so pushy it was uncomfortable and started putting it in a
sack before I had even said yes. The next one I bought took a few minutes and
the people were not as pushy but master salesmen. 25K seemed expensive to me but
we had to leave and I was losing my patients and at this point did not want to
return there. I spent a total of 40k,
which is not too much but I still feel I spent a lot. I will need to improve my
Swahili, that is for certain. After practically running out of that place we
walked through the crowded streets to the tailors. People stared and I kept
looking at my feet so as not to trip on the bumpy roads and crumbling
sidewalks. We got to the tailors and
then all decided that we should go back to Kundayo (the pace we are staying) and
use the local tailor Mazo ( the owner of Kundayo) knew.
But, on our way back someone decided we should walk through the food market.
Shouting, yelling, gasoline, fish, and rotting vegetables,
all saturated with the smell of human sweat and covered in dust is what we were
greeted by. We walked down some steps between two buildings and into a very
crowded food market, the ceiling was low and the isles were crowded and we
tried to make it through as quickly as we could. Pushing through people and
being approached. I could feel eyes, which to be honest has become normal, but
the constant barrage is not fun. We passed through an area with mounds of tiny dried
fish. Mounds piled on tables, baskets over flowing on the ground; these little
fish were everywhere and the smell was as foul as could be. My gag reflex is
generally very controllable due to years of working in manure filled barns and
such, but I was not prepared for this. This brought back memories of the meal
the other night with the fish. Ugali (basically millet flour and water in a
sticky cooked substance which is good… But it is often paired with a sauce made
with meat and in our case… Tiny dried fish…) I found myself thinking how being a vegetarian
seems very appealing. As soon as we were
through that section we went past grains and then fruit. As we passed through
the fruit a man lay unconscious, his head bleeding and in a position that represented
strongly that he did not lay upon the ground in such a manner by choice. The
blood dripped from a small gash in his face and a fly or two was already upon
his face. Shocked I wasn’t sure what to think, and I was sure he was dead. (Apperantly
he was breathing according to our professors, however I saw no movement) Lilly
our guide said he was probably a thief, and thieves were not tolerated here.
Obviously. While I don’t feel bad for the man’s crime I am still in a bit of
shock about whole situation. Over stimulus, overwhelming, and my head racing we
headed to the dala dala station. Where things proceeded to worsen. A man
wanting our business kicked a dala full of people out so he could have our
business, men urged us to get in but I felt sick. The people stared; my heart
broke for the perhaps 80 year old woman who stood confused on the street. I
tried to say “pole” as we passed but I couldn’t help but feel awful. People
stared, looks of discust and dislike for “ wazungu” permeated their faces and I
don’t blame them for a second. I felt like a disgusting human being. I had been put above someone else; I had been
played off as an ignorant, wealthy white girl who was above another individual,
and for this matter many individuals. I
felt sick, and still do thinking about it. I feel hated today. And I never want
to do that to someone again. I am not better than anyone else on that dala.
Especially that poor old woman. My heart breaks.
I wish I could go a day or two with a different skin color,
not stared at, not a spectacle, be a person here. Not some circus show. It
pains me to know that I will never fit in, even though someday I may know
perfect Swahili, I will still have the mzungu prejudice. It brings to my eyes
some new perspectives of the minorities in the USA. We so often stereotype and
treat people accordingly, but now having been a minority myself I can certainly
feel ashamed at how I so often am cruel without intention. It needs to stop. I
need to be aware. Today was over whelming and over stimulating, but is humbling
I need to think more. I need to be a better person.
January 21st 2014.
April 19th 2014
Wow, reading this I can certainly say it is true. I hated
that day, and I still do. Now I know a bit more of the situation, but it still
makes me sick. We almost refuse to go out in large groups now, the ideal number
to be safe and not hassled is 3, but up to five is faily comfortable and here
in Dar it almost doesn’t matter. My
Swahili is to the point that I can have a very basic conversation. People now
smile when I try to speak Swahili and are genuinely pleased when I know more
than the average white girl. I have learned a lot these past 3 and a half
months. One of the biggest lessons is that people are people everywhere. It
doesn’t matter if they speak differently, act differently, view the world in a
way you had never thought of, speak a different language, eat weird food… I
could go on and on… But people are people, all people smile, laugh, get
annoyed… Everyone deserves respect, something I think we so often take for
granted when we are in our comfort zones, and something we often forget to give
to those who are different to us; and respect is something not just categorized
as ‘not being overtly rascist’ or whatever. Respect is something that happens
when you treat someone and their way of life and opinions how you would like
your own to be treated. It is that golden rule, it is watching what you say,
and how you say it. It is being culturally sensitive and knowing that you
really are not always right no matter how educated, privileged, or cultured you
all. Just because you can speak the language of a place does not mean you are
better than those who do not understand your own, nor does it mean that you are
any better than anyone else. Because when it gets right down to it, you are no
better than the person next to you on the bus, no different than the person who
cut you off in traffic, none of your important business is more important than
anyone else’s. You never have a right to make someone feel like they are less
than a person than yourself. I have found that throughout this trip people
assume that I am a privileged white American girl with money who is here to
help Africa. Which is not the case, I am privileged, I have had an amazing life
by any standards. It has not always been easy, but I have nothing to complain
about. And even though I was raised never worrying about food being on the
table, or just because I am new to a place that is much different than the
place I grew up… Really whatever it is, I have no right to be more respected
than anyone else. I am just a person, and we are just all people. It seems
trivial and repetitive to reiterate that, but honestly I have discovered that
we as people assume we deserve so much, and that we are entitled to something
just because we can justify it… But honestly we are no more entitled to
anything than the next person. Whether they be male, female, from China, from
Africa, gay, strait, vegan, carnivore, atheist, Hindu, Muslim, Christian… You
get the picture…We are no different, and we deserve no less respect. So, just
some thoughts on life… Okay, I really need to work on my paper now.
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