<\/p>\n
The summer before we were married my husband introduced me to Tanzania. Within two weeks we crossed the country from east to west, smelling our way through a spice tour on Zanzibar, sipping Tusker lager at the Mweka gate of Mount Kilimanjaro and following an elephant family through the dried up Tarangire riverbed while on safari. However, those excursions were all sideshows to the main event: visiting family, which means eating with family. Every other day we traveled to a new city or village where I would meet new aunts, uncles and cousins who force-fed me until I could only wear my drawstring pants. There was a two-plate minimum at every meal. It is a delicious and dangerous style of hospitality.<\/p>\n
Throughout our stay we covered short distances between relatives by car and long distances by bus. The highways were smooth and we were on typical charter coaches but with beverage service. The condensation would form quickly on my Fanta and create a damp ring when I let it rest on my thigh. As we cruised down the road with a cold glass bottle in hand, I watched mounted televisions cycle through a series of choreographed church choirs.<\/p>\n
Our longest leg of travel was from mountainous Arusha to lakeside Mwanza, a 12-hour bus ride that began before dawn. We went to the station the day before to buy tickets. To avoid any missteps, we handed over money for the transaction to our cousin and waited in the car. Our Swahili was limited to common courtesy words of which even those I muddled. Earlier in the day I had responded to the respectful \u201cShikamo\u201d<\/em> offered by a young boy by returning the exact same greeting. His shocked eyes turned into a fit of giggles at the expense of the visiting mzungu<\/em>, who had just acknowledged him as an elder instead of recognizing his respect with \u201cMarahaba.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n After the tickets were safely tucked away in our canvas travel pouches we went home to enjoy the most delicious meal of the trip. As we sat to dine, our plates clanged against the metal serving dishes — all available table space was utilized. I started out with starch, a scoop of plain white rice and a chunk of ugali<\/em>, which is a maize porridge (similar to polenta) cooked into a dough-like consistency.<\/p>\n As I rolled a bite sized ball of the gritty dough in my right hand, I was overwhelmed with the choices for accompaniment. The chicken slaughtered that morning had stewed in a sauce of tomatoes, onions, garlic and turmeric root until your tongue could mistake its texture for cream. A portion of goat had simmered for hours in a pot of hot peppers and was served with a word of caution.<\/p>\n The second goat dish was my favorite staple, nyama choma<\/em>, sinewy rib meat seared over coals to a charred perfection. Sukuma wiki<\/em> was saut\u00e9ed with more of nature\u2019s candy and the tang of the dark leafy greens was perfectly tempered by the caramelized onions. Golden sweet potatoes were boiled then crisped around the edges in a thin layer of oil. Baked pilau<\/em> showed off the country\u2019s sweet spices as the rice, chunks of chicken and diced carrots mingled with cinnamon, cloves and coriander. Coconut burst onto my tongue with each bean I chewed as though its innards had been replaced with the tropical fruit\u2019s flesh.<\/p>\n We ate three full dinner plates each instead of the required two. A bowl of sweet mangoes accompanied the chai that completed our meal. That night, as the food from our farewell meal settled, we packed our belongings and set the alarm to ring before the sun would rise.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n While food was the main element of hospitality, assurance for safety and comfort were a close second and third. Like a helicopter parent at a middle school dance, our cousin walked us onto the bus, located our seats to make sure no one else was sitting in them and talked to the bus driver and attendant. He told them the obvious: we were Americans traveling mute with no Swahili. As if it wasn\u2019t already clear who we were, I was the only mzungu<\/em>\u00a0on the bus.<\/p>\n We traveled through grasslands surrounding Ngorongoro Crater and along the southern rim of the Serengeti. The earth transitioned from flowing grass to dusty mounds and back again, but always maintained a golden hue. Flat-topped acacia trees dotted the landscape, their limbs extending outward instead of upward, as though their growth was inspired by the horizon.<\/p>\n The green leaves of the trees towered above the more frequent green bushes, all at once creating a complexity and a monotony as our bus rolled up and down the hills. Signs of human activity enhanced the natural landscape. Round, thatched-roof homes built by the Masaai popped up in a sudden, small cluster and the settlements could go unnoticed except for the flare of their residents\u2019 red shukas<\/em><\/a>. The larger villages announced themselves more slowly, one cement block house after another until we reached a clear center of town.<\/p>\n Each village looked similar to me, advertisements for Vodacom and Coca Cola covered tin roofs across the country. Buildings alternated between primary colors and earth tones with an artistic expression an urban planner would covet. Block fences were common around homes of any size and everyone had the same uncomfortable plastic chairs sitting outside their doors. The bus attendant would call out the village names and a few people would disembark each time. Just as the villages were indistinct due to my unfamiliarity, all of their names sounded similar to my untrained ear as well.<\/p>\n On a previous bus trip there was a rest stop about halfway through the journey. The pit toilets were clean, the concessions were delightful and we were told that the bus would leave in 15 minutes. The bus left after precisely 15 minutes. The lone passenger who was not back in his seat scrambled to hire a motorcycle to catch up to his intended mode of transportation. His traveling partners had begged the driver to hold on for 45 seconds in the parking lot to no avail. As the bus pulled away I didn\u2019t need an interpreter to understand their real-time updates. \u201cHe\u2019s pulling out of the lot! He\u2019s behind the bus! He\u2019s beside the bus!\u201d<\/p>\n However, it wasn\u2019t until we encountered a stop sign miles down the road that the driver paused to open the door to this tardy motorcycle-hopping fellow.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I was not interested in being left in the middle of Tanzania with family hours away. I did not trust my ability to hire a motorcycle or do anything but sit down in the middle of the dirt and cry if we were to be left behind. Especially because, you know, Swahili.<\/p>\n