12-28-10
Spent 2 days looking at and learning about Sisal (relative of Agave)-- apparently the most sustainable plant in existance! And now I can't stop seeing it-- spikey rows sprawling throughout the valleys and to the base of the Usambara Mountains. Like caterpillars marching along who've just backed down because the grade becomes too steep. Not too much of a slope for some people, though, like the farmers I saw out the bus window, side-stepping to till and weed some sideways plots.
Lots of thoughts on sisal and the enterprising upstart industry, and they swirled through my head at full speed like the wind ripping through my hair, windows down through the savannah.
The scenery is splendidly gorgeous and utterly unexpected.
Cactus trees look like they grow upside down or are copying the looks of umbrellas blown inside out by a blustery gust (Providence rains and puddles feel pretty far away).
Scrubby greenery is awash against the richly red earth. And the hills seem to erupt arbitrarily like fingers poked through kneaded clay.
And the sun is BRIGHT, my hair is getting light. The sun bleaches the sisal too-- white gold, he calls it. The strong, straw-like fluff meets the brushing machine in a room of people wearing breathing masks, covered mouths make their eyes more expressive and they're looking at us like, mwanafunzi? [student] and I think, yeah, why am I so lucky? I'm studying you? Who dealt these cards? And then it's like seeing my own commodity chain consumption, my consummate guilt, but seeing my history too. A few generations ago we did this too-- this is development? At least your factory is autonomous, not imperialistic ? Maybe this methane will bring electricity to your house, and maybe this $2 minimum day wage will afford you a tin roof so you can legally have that energy.
You can see Tanzania's wealth in its earth, the sisal standing tall, spiking sharply into the sky; the dirt a mysterious, luxuriously potent and saturated red, and now clouds suspended, casting shadows that mark their territory with protection and depth.
In Moshi, I paint with cinnamon and eat breakfast watching the clouds move across the peak of Mt. K.
I wish I could pause everything and hole up in a room somewhere, let my brain run like an old film reel, let my hands make art, and all the rest will rest until I pull back together.
Interlude (the lighter side):
I picked up the group traveling ukelele and spent idle bus time strumming distractedly and looking out the window. I made up a song, which is more of an ode because there are no concrete chords (I'm actually never sure when the uke is in tune...) or consistent melody, but managed to stick in everyone's head for a few hours:
BICYCLE SQUID
Stormie bought some BICYCLE SQUID
bibi cooked it in tomato sauce, you know,
she sautee'd it,
and Stormie ate it
BICYCLE SQUID,
not a fish but they live in the sea
they're not food for me.
That's all there is really, a true story from Zanzibar and a vendor who comes to the house by bike, his newspaper-lined basket full of glistening, gelatinous white squid, which Bibi (host mom) bought and cooked for our final dinner, explaining that they stand apart from the categories of meat, hen, egg, and fish that I won't eat. No hard feelings when I filled up on vegetables and chappati though, it just meant more squid for breakfast.
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