color-wild-culture shock- streeeeetch

This land, these slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, this peoples and their culture, is uniquely it's own- made of the same dirt, water, wind, fire, sugar, and spice as the rest of His most perfect creation... but in a form not seen anywhere else... so brilliantly it's own that it feels as if you've departed from planet Earth, roamed the galaxies not knowing what you're looking for- at one point pressing the button marked "color-wild-culture shock-streeeeetch" and flop boom crash bang the door opens to Moshi- Tanzania-Africa, a whole new world.

It is red dirt so present in thin-skin form on all surfaces in the dry season and in 'one inch thick on the soles of all feet, flip flops, tire flops, wabo wabos' form in the rainy season.

Moshi- Tanzania- Africa is bugs that fly into me, all around me, onto my food, swim circles in my drinks, climb up my legs, fly over my bed as i prepare for and act out sleep, and bite me (not so much anymore, but i did just heal from malaria which results from a mosquito bite soooooooooo maybe im still being nibbled a bit). However, in all their uninvited, rather bothersome, very dirty- im sure- efforts, they are nearly invisible to me now- having become "just part and parcel" to this adventure.

It is maconde, peelow, banana and corn fritters, rices with spices, potatoes in every form imagined and not, and meat that i dont eat because im pretty sure that it's the same mbuzi i named 'flower' and fed yellow buds to moments previous... but then, every once in a while, I do eat it for the sake of necessary nutrients and really enjoy every bite- all tender and succulent and spiced nice- because the mama who cooked it knew how to do what she did.

Moshi- Tanzania- Africa is mamas who cook- yum- and clean- mopping dirty floors with a dirty cloth and dirty water causing the needed "wet floor" look of a just cleaned floor, but really only more evenly distributing the dirt, mud, and muck already present. But it's Africa and dirty is easily accepted (and quite possibly even advertised) as part of the charm of the nation.
(One quick aside... I was shopping for mens African shirts in a shop called Expeditions and I asked the kind Indian business owner to "please" pull down a very cotton, very hand sewn, cream-colored shirt. It had caught my attention and was now enticing me to buy it(self) but it was dirty... as in filthy and so I asked "did this once belong to someone?" and in kindness and humor, the owner responded with "No, it's... ummm, it's... Moshi. Moshi is dirty." (now read it again but with an indian accent.) Moshi is this region, this town, this land, this home of Kilimanjaro. It was the first time I had heard a local so honestly peg it as such... in such... truth- "Moshi is dirty."
and Moshi is dirty...
but it's truy not a big deal and only obvious when held up against the sterile white back drop of my American experience.

Moshi- Tanzania- Africa is awe-somely beautiful women. There is little affirmation from one to another and even less face to mirror-reflection talk of beauty and worth, but Tanzanian mamas, dadas, young girls, and babies all radiate a beauty.... one much different from every other created woman. They are as different, one to another, as are all females within one given culture and are each complete in their beauty.

They are "black" but really brown, with reds, oranges, and hot pinks blended to perfection.
Cheeks that display the sun's tatoo, in all it's deeply penetrating orange-reds
Lips, painted dark by Beauty, Himself, with tints of hot pink in thin lines, speaking of femininity and romance, conjuring up thoughts of "pretty"
Noses perfectly proportioned to their faces
Eyes, huge and deep and dark... sometimes reflecting the darkness in their hearts, produced through pain and disappointment leading them to anger, mistrust, and bitterness. It brings up, in the on-looker, feelings of sadness and empathy for a lost heart. Most often, however, I find "karibu" (welcome) in these sockets to the soul, sparkling with joy, light, love, and true interest in me as a "rafiki" (friend).
These women are caring, incredibly hospitable- "karibu karibu karibu", wanting of wisdom, hungry for knowledge, searching for "it", and longing for new-ness. If one listens carefully, all of this can be heard as these women speak, with a voice and in a language parrallel to their outward beauty. Swahili is the local tongue here, and it is spoken, as I hear it, in song.

Tanzanian women wear second-hand America teeshirts and jeans, wrapped in kongas. The purpose of the konga is to sheild the "fancy" American clothing from the swirling whirling, ever-surrounding red dirt... but it is in these wraps of colors and shapes, messages in design, rainbow-brilliant bouncing culture-defining fabrics that this dry, even when soaking wet, red dirty (yes, the 'y' is on purpose) land and it's people becomes even more beautiful. Wrapped within the wrap is Africa... color, land, myths, beliefs, drama, design, vegetation, the Mountain, ladies dancing, Mosai tribal warriors hunting, fruits, food, flowers, brilliance, bounce, life, innocence, innocence lost, darkness, and freedom. Truly, all in a fabric... all in a konga!

Tanzanian men also wear second-hand America clothing. Imagine shopping at Salvation Army for every piece of clothing you own- no other options. These things are bought off of street carts and at Kiberloni, an area just outside of town, set up as a huge thrift shop. The style of dress here is similar to men in the Western world... tee-shirts or polos and jeans much too large but, somehow, made to fit. The men always match, where as the women do not. It's no matter. They've made the non-matching into a style all their own, and who they are stands to define their beauty, over-riding any importance placed on the clothing they wear.

There is importance placed on quality of dress on two occassions: trips to mjini (town) and Sunday services. The African is seen in only his/her best. For the women, this means, self-designed dresses made from kitangaes and kongas or dresses, second-hand from America. I digress for a moment to explain the dresses from home-sweet-home. Ladies, go to your storage closets and pull out, both, your mid-eightees, full ruffle, pastel colored, lace trimmed dresses and your high-school prom gown(s). Men, flash back to that night from ages past, think upon that pretty girl you escorted by the hand (or the one you really wished you had gone with... whichever one you most noticed), and remember her dress. These are the dresses, gowns(, costumes) made available to Tanzanian women. It's all they know and is fully understood as very beautiful here (and it is quite beautiful.)

Kongas are not worn as wraps to church. (I was just told that this is only true of the "rich" churches- woman from the villages wear kongas to service.) I repeat, kongas are not worn as wraps to (rich) church(es)... except by Caitlin Joy Pritchard. To me, they are beautiful and add more rainbow-color-Africa-ka pow, to my very me, but, reflective of America- style. It was Sunday, a few weeks ago, when I discovered my faux pas. I was standing outside of Maskani Yake (His Dwelling Place), the church, with Goudencia, my roommate and one of the most beautiful women I have ever connected hearts with. We were discussing after-Word plans when I felt eyes in the back of my head... and all over my being. I mentioned this to the beauty in front of me and she responded with "no, Cait-a-lin, it's not true... well, maybe... ummm, because... you are wearing kongas." She then gave me a look similar to one you give a child who has just done something completely pure-hearted yet so rediculous that even you feel embarrased... followed by a huuuuge smile. I said "What! Why?.. is it wrong to wear kongas?" The Beauty's reply was "No, it's not wrong, Cait-a-lin,... well, you see, the women wear kongs when working to keep nice clothes clean. On Sundays they dress up. Not kongas." I thought about this, pondered it, rolled it over and over in my mind and decided... I am going to rock my kongas when I want to rock my kongas! It is not offensive, it's just not understood.

Moshi- Tanzaniana- Africa is trips to mjini (town)-
As a mzungu, I dont feel the need to dress up like my Tanazanian dadas and kakas... so it's teeshirt or tank and jeans for this girl. Im there to sit at the coffee shop and/or to get some things done... post office, eats, other assorted errands. Sometimes Juma takes us everywhere, door to door. Othertimes, I walk it- just me and my Roxy flops. As I walk, I try to stay conscious of my surrounding. It's so easy to just watch my feet the entire time- noticing rad soda bottle caps that have been lying in that same spot for ages- wondering what I could make of it if I were to grab it up- but realizing how so dirty it is and imagining who, with what had their hands and mouth on it... so I leave it. I get lost in this, I do- but then I get hit with "oh my, I am in Africa. Look at it- Notice it- See it- Take it with you, Caitlin" and I do... all of that. As I look, notice, see, take the surroundings- I am inundated with Tanzanians- everywhere- working, walking, begging, talking, some smiling, most very serious-faced... all surviving! It is very much about survival here- little joy, little pleasures, little ease of heart... too much ease of action... acceptance of non-action. I look at each, taking in their details- God's smoothing out of this ones cheek and His lifting of that ones nose- truly, they are beautiful! I want to photograph them all, but it's a delicate action- not always welcome. Anyway, I look, notice, see, and take them with me as I pass by each. I think about them and their day and their future and their hearts and their dreams. I know, almost for certain, what they did that morning, what they are doing now, and what they will do later that night. There is not much creativity in mixing it up. They dont grow up being told to "dream" or go after anything bigger than what they see directly in front of them- farming the cows, collecting taca taca (garbage), cleaning, cooking, street vending. They dont have access to our dream makers- machines or communication devices or transportation to get someone "out." It is easy to quickly feel lost and broken and hopeless over their situation... but then enters Jesus and His hugeness and His plan for them and their lives.... and the Urgency for the reality of Eternity. Wow!

If the he or she's surrounding me aren't Tanzanian or Indian, they are Mzungu. I am so completely drawn to the mzungu. It's wild because, I am one and yet, dont really ever thing about that fact... until I see one. I get as excited as the little Tanzanian children who call out "mzungu mzungu" everytime we pass by. It is unknown to me why they are here and where they are from and what treasures lie deep within them. They are here for a season and a reason... self discovery, growth, to give of one's self, exploration. I wonder "Is Jesus the reason for this season in their life?"-- "Are they aware of His administrative hand in their lives or are they lost and wondering?"
Each is from a distant, far off land, one on which I have, most likely, not yet tread... but long to. They have stories and accents, new and foreign, but delightful, a tickle to the ear. Each is beautiful... representing well the slight differences God put in each different groups of peoples. Each wants to know more, discovering new in them and the world as they venture through this land. There is something innately in some people- actually, I believe it is most people, but not everyone listens to and goes for it- that cries out for adventure and discovery, seeing and touching all of God's creations, treading new lands, making an impact as opposed to just a footprint. The mzungus you meet in Tanzania have all listened and gone for it. The 'yes' in their spirit put them on a plane and flew them here. The few I've spoken with are fascinating- from England, Australia, New Zealand, Holland- missionaries, mountain climbers, backpackers- here for months or years. I get so much from these interactions... brief shared- heart moments, always increasing my faith and my "yes" to GO.

My prayer is "Lord, let me leave with each those peices of me which You know will bless You in them... and let me grab at, fist, and punch into my heart that which You know will bless You in me."

Isnt Jesus so yummy!

Moshi- Tanzania- Africa is warmth and light and vibrant life. It is beauty beyond the dictionary definition. It is hearts- beating, searching, bleeding- some loving Jesus, some needing direction-- needing Jesus.

Moshi- Tanzania- Africa is a greatest gift, a most precious prayer closet, a blessing which has blessed me beyond Beyond.

Moshi- Tanzania- Africa is in my heart, forever a part of me and to be remembered as a most precious season in Our Love Story... The King's romancing of me and me of Him.

Thank you all for sharing in this with me. Your hearts kept beat with my heart throughout the entirety of this. I have been blessed beyond what I could have imagined.
Love Love LOve