28.08.2011 African Funeral
Even though Kelvin and I went to bed so late, we were still up and readyt o go by 0800. I didn’t have much time in Mwanza, and wanted to see as much of it as possible. We had breakfast (mandozi) at the hotel, and then left to walk around a bit. I really wanted to see the fish market, so we walked there first. There were two fish markets. The first one was more of a whole-sale type. The fresh fish had not arrived yet, but they had old fish that hadn’t sold fresh the day before were being chopped up. They were salted first to preserve them, and then chopped. Every bit was used: the heads, eyes, bones, everything. I asked the man what happened to the dried fish next. He said that they send it to the Congo, and it’s sold at a rather expensive price. People make fish soup from it.
Kelvin told me that they catch fish that are bigger than him from the lake. I didn’t believe him, so he asked one of the men at the fish market if they could show me the biggest fish they had. He took me down a few aisles of stinky, dried fish, and then pointed to a piece of dirty tarp on the ground. Kelvin listed the tarp, and lying there was a fish that must have measured at least three feet wide and six feet tall. It was dried with salt, and had flies and beetles crawling all over it. I asked if people ate it, and he looked at me like it was a silly question to ask. “Of course. We chop this up and send it to be sold in the Congo as well.” I can do goat blood, but I could barely bare the thought of eating that dried, beetle infested fish meat.
We left to visit the second fish market. This one had a huge assortment of fresh fish. It was so stinky, but everything looked so delicious! There were fish of all different sizes and colors. Attached to the fish market there was the other types of food. There were all types of fruits, vegetables, seeds, grains, and live chickens. I bought passion fruit, boabo seeds, banana honey, and a few other types of foods I had never seen nor tasted before. Everything was delicious. I wish I could bring it home so everyone could have a taste of Africa.
After the market, we had catfish for lunch. We had plans to meet up with Kelvin’s aunt and uncle after lunch. They are rather well off. Years ago, when they moved to Mwanza, they opened their own business selling clothes. They travel to China two to three times a year to buy their products. Eventually, the started buying furniture from China as well and opened a furniture store. They expanded to Dar and Arusha, and now make a very comfortable living. Of course, they still run out of running water and electricity (as everyone else in Tanzania does), but their home and stores are all very nice, and they have savings to fall back onto if necessary.
When we arrived to their store, I was asked if I brought my kanga. I had, and so I put it on when they asked. A friend of theirs was traveling through the Serengeti with four other people, on their way to Arusha. The person driving her was drunk. They were traveling at night, and somebody was coming from the opposite direction. The dust was so high and there was so much that the drivers didn’t see each other, and they had a head on collision. The driver of the other car did, as well as the friend of Kelvin’s aunt and her driver. I was to accompany Kelvin and his family to this woman’s funeral, but it was culturally unacceptable to go to a funeral without a kanga. I wrapped it around my waist, and then linked arms with Kelvin’s aunt and walked with her to the funeral. It was an outdoor function. We stood on the curb of the street, which was closed for the funeral. Hundreds of people were there. I didn’t understand what the people on the loud speaker were saying, but women and men would start wailing in unison. Some women would throw themselves on the ground, crying. After the speeches, it was time to view the body. The women were to go first. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go, because I thought the body might look very bad. Kelvin’s aunt wanted company though, so I went with her. Everyone gets into a line, and walks a circle around the open casket. There was no time to talk to her, say good bye, or cry over her body, as there is at funerals in America. You just walked past. I noticed most of the women didn’t even look at the body. I quickly glanced. The woman’s face was bruised, puffy, and discolored. There was an open gash on her forehead and her left cheek. She was dressed in an all white dress. I could tell that she was a rather young, and very beautiful woman. After the female viewing, it was the men’s turn.
We left after Kelvin and his uncle viewed the body. The close friends and family were going to eat and then start the drive back to Arusha, where she was going to be buried. The funeral was very sad, and I felt out of place for most of it. I didn’t know this woman, and felt like everybody knew that. I felt like I didn’t belong. When I saw everyone else crying, I found myself starting to cry as well. I stopped myself though, because I felt like I didn’t have the right to cry. I was there to give support to Kelvin’s aunt. I was mourning the death of this young mother, but I was happy when we left the funeral as well.
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