Hilary Beans

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Everest Chinese

I sit in front of my room in a white plastic garden chair. The sound of a broom swishing wafts my direction from around the corner, quitting some of the African dust from the concrete sidewalks. The sky, usually a brilliant blue, is overcast, amking the tops of the trees appear fuzzy. It is a sign that we have entered the rainy season early, part of each day for the next month the sky will open up with powerful showers to feed the crops growing in the region. It is hoped that strong rains this year will alleviate the suffering of some 11 million east Africans threatened with hunger if the harvest is bad this year.
Looking around, the small compound that houses Stanley’s restaurant and inn feels like it could be a Chinese garden in china (I imagine, never having been in a Chinese garden in china). There are leafy green plants all over, lovely landscaping around the paths, even as clean clothes dry above them. Perhaps the dripping water from the laundry irrigates the flowery shrubs, thereby providing a function as well as contributing to the charming overall ambience.
The restaurant is decorated with paper lanterns; the larger tables are all equipped with a lazy susan for conveniently passing dishes around a circular table. In the evening, there are candles and a meeting of multiple worlds, as tourists and locals come for a taste of authentic Chinese food in northern Tanzania. Young waiters and waitresses with bright smiles and cornrows bring your food, including a hot cloth to wash your hands at the beginning of the meal. All the while, Mama Nui, Stanley’s ancient mother shuffles along, never lifting her feet allowing herself to be identified moments before she enters any room. She smiles a crinkly eyed smile and speaks to me and others in Chinese, still smiling as I try to answer in English or my pigeon Swahili.
It is the second time that I have made this small place my temporary home, staying enough days to begin to unpack my 5000 cubic inches of belongings. I begin to make myself a home by getting to know Stanley and Mama Nui, Lugasa, the nightwatchman, and the man who sells mangoes off of a push cart between here and the clocktower, which is the center of downtown. All of these things make this small garden, restaurant and room my home place amidst my wanderings.
Downtown, paperboys try to guess what country I come from as they try to sell me The Guardian or the International Herald or USA Today. Cars whiz by and I still have to think twice before crossing the street. While Arusha seems slightly inaccessible at first, it only takes about a day before there are people to say hello to on the street. As any city, it soon makes itself familiar. The head of the African Union, Africa’s nascent response to the EU and international integration, is based here, as is the International Tribunal for Warcrimes of the Rwandan genocide. Just down the road, the market is full of fish from the ocean, from Tanzania’s three giant lakes, of fruit from the surrounding farms, of plastic kitchen wares imported from China. The chorus of voices invites me to buy any or all of these items in Swahili or English. My responses in Swahili prompt the question “Unasema kiswahili?” “Pole pole,” I respond, “kidogo”. Slowly, I say, and only a little. Despite this little, after a month here I am beginning to feel more comfortable, to notice smaller things, to make more friends. To smile more and more, just being here and enjoying the wide variety of the world.

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