Yankee,
Come Here!
“Tusker, Kilimanjaro, you take five of it, no problem. Safari
– you take three, you going to be headache tomorrow,”
my smiley, chubby-cheeked, beer connoisseur of a waiter explains.
He welcomes me to Tanzania with so much enthusiasm you would have
never guessed that I was his 1000th foreign customer, but rather
that he had waited years for me to show up at the hotel bar and
order a beer.
“Why is it that people from your country are so much more
charming than any other? If you make an investigation, you will
find that no other people from no other country are so charming
and clever,” he declares.
Contrary to popular belief, Americans are quite well-liked in
Africa, and most everywhere in the world I’ve gone. I think
it may be our tip-oriented culture, or maybe our charming naïveté
(stupidité?). Or in the case of Tanzania, perhaps here
it is because we share the odd distinction of having rebelled
against the Brits -- sharing a common enemy makes us friends by
default. As we Americans so rarely leave the comforts of our continent,
we are also a rarity, so we are popular by virtue of the law of
supply and demand. Plus, we remain the apex of modern popular
culture in the eyes of millions of youth around the globe, and
regardless of your feelings about 50 Cent, Tupak or Britney Spears,
you might as well share genetic material with them as far as the
rest of the world is concerned.
“Your country-people, they sit down to learn Swahili, no
problem. Like you, you tell me you are here one day, but I think
you have at least one week here,” my waiter continues.
It’s pretty clear who the clever one really is, as he lays
this on as I peruse the bill. Then again, I have heard this about
us Americans from enough different sources to think that maybe
we’re not so ugly after all. I like to think I’m not,
at least.
Seems it takes one to know one. Tanzanians are extremely kind,
helpful, and welcoming, and considering the place gets its fair
share of tourists (again, this being relative), seems remarkably
genuine towards them. Here a jambo (hi in tourist Swahili, as
it has no real meaning in the language unless prefixed by other
words), there a mambo (hi), here a karibu (welcome), there a coy
“hi” (never “hello” – that’s
old school, apparently): I am greeted warmly at every turn.
“Rofiki, friend! You like I give you my company?”
“Mzungu, foreigner, you welcome!”
“Wait, wait! Come, come!”
Most Tanzanians are content with a greeting returned, and if I
fail to wait or come, they don’t bother pursuing the matter.
Most.
Walking the quiet “garden road” to the Indian Ocean
while out exploring on my first day here, I come upon a young
man sitting on a log.
“Come, come. Mm, English, no. You? From? Me, you. Friendi?
Wasika koto la mani sewadi (insert real Swahili here). Love. I
you love. Going America? Missus?” he suggests, spouting
a freestyle Swahilinglish love poem.
“Missus. MISTER. America.” Gesture big, tall; flex
muscles. Mister,” I return using my own literary form –
flash fiction.
He laughs, he gets it, but keeps walking with me.
“No, no, no,no, no ,no, no…” I count to ten
no’s on my fingers.
He laughs, he gets it, but keeps walking with me.
“Me,” do the yellow pages walk, hold up one finger,
thumb at myself.
He doesn’t get it, or else pretends not to.
I stop. I am not walking any further as long as he does.
He gets it.
“Friendi?”
“Friendi. Bye.”
Before capitulating he steals an awkward peck to my neck.
I think I will call my new husband Tyson.
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