Nipe Lita Mbili

Sundays in Tanzania are very much like Sundays in America: they involve church, alcohol, and football. It is the one day of the week when farmers, carpenters, shopkeepers, and government officials alike come together to pray, drink, and play their worries away. The morning starts off with a trip to one of the five area churches (everything from Catholic to Seventh Day Adventists). By noon the main dirt road is a hussle and bussle of church auctions, families greeting each other, and neighbors heading home for some midday chai. After everyone’s had their fill of potatoes and tea the men head to the club to drink pombe, the young men head to the field to play soccer, and the women sit around gossiping. Gossiping is the habit of people on the sidelines. I’ve got legs and a dislike of being sidelined; I suspect the women of my village are the same, but as is custom in Tanzania women are marginalized. As a Peace Corps Volunteer and a woman I’ve taken it upon myself to try to further the cause of women in my village; to show the men and the women that it is not a man’s world. The pombe club, being completely dominated by men, seemed like the best place to start.

As I finished my bowl of boiled potatoes I told my neighbors about my plan. Sophia (aka Mama Jessica by the rest of the village) shook her head and let out a string of “ka ka ka”s as Wenna (her youngest born) grabbed and screamed for her matiti. Rehema (Mama Chale) laughed and high fived me as David and Chale (the two male teachers) nodded in agreement. “Yes” David said in English “Even myself, I will go to unwind my mind.” Unwind my mind I thought this job comes with perks.

Around 4p.m. David and I strolled down the dirt path towards the pombe klebu. Now in the final weeks of the rainy season the entire village is blooming with overgrown wildflowers and grasses. Bamboo shoots tower and bend over the path, heavy with the weight of their overgrown stocks. Bamboo, a member of the grass family, is sort of the duck tape of southern highlands crops, it’s used for everything from building fences and making instruments, to feeding guinea pigs and brewing Ulanzi. Pombe, or local brew, is made of whatever produce is local and readily available, this can include corn, baobab fruit, to bamboo. Ulanzi, bamboo pombe, is the official drink of the Southern Highlands.

The klebu itself is located just down the main dirt road, in close approximation to the churches (lest anyone stray after morning service). It is a U-shaped dirt courtyard, walled in by connecting thatch-roofed mud huts. Each hut offers something a little different. On any given Sunday up to three huts will have fresh ulanzi, two huts make chipsi mayai (fried potatoes and eggs), one makes kiti moto (fried pork), and several huts offer empty rooms in which people play the town’s favorite past time: checkers. David and I inquire as to where the safi ulanzi is and proceed to a dark doorway. My eyes adjust as I’m greeted with ecstatic drunken calls to sit and share some ulanzi.

“Greytaa!” cries one old man “Unakunywa ulanzi?!?”
“It is possible” I say, taking a seat next to David and an elderly man.

The room is a simple musty space with mud walls, dirt floor, and a thatch roof. There are about eight men and two bibi (grannies) filling the benches lining the 12 x 12 room. A plastic 1 liter cup is in front of each group of people. A few men firmly grasp onto 2 liter cups. Everyone is sharing. The bar maid makes a show of bringin me a small cup full of cloudy liquid. “Nashakuru” (thank-you) she says over and over, bending on one knee to show respect. I thank her and take the cup to my lips. The old women are stone faced as the men whoop and holler. “Careful,” one calls, “you’ll wind up on the floor.”

I drink cautiously at first, my last experience with pombe was that it strongly resembled the taste of dirty sock water. My senses eased, this ulanzi was different, it was sweet, it was cool, it was refreshing, it was safi. I expressed as much to the crowd that had accumulated at the door: “Kitamu sana” (very sweet) I smile “nipe lita mbili”(make mine a double). The bibi smile, and the men exchange “kaa”s and quiet laughter. David, my neighbor leans over and says to me “Wey! (you!) You’re going to have to walk home later you know. “Yes” I respond in Swahili, “I’m walking home, will you be sleeping on this bench?” Everyone finds this funny, we have a laugh, and the mzungu moment, for now, has past. I happily eye the green two liter bucket/cup that’s coming my way, and let the unwinding begin.

At first nothing spectacular happens. The ulanzi seems to be fairly weak—much weaker than the corn pombe my home stay mother use to brew. I sip it like wine, swishing it around my mouth and swallowing daintily. Pomegranite I decide tastes like a watered down pomegranate martini, delicious.

Within an hour the entire male population of my village and several of the surrounding villages, has passed through my pombe hut. They all express gratitude for my “visit” and those whom I know well take a few sips from my 2 liter. Everyone is happy and spirited, even when as the afternoon rain storm stews a pool of inescapable mud.

The few women who are at the club are either bibi or bar maids. They sit silently and sip their liters, occasionally dribbling on their kanga cloths, which cover their upper and lower torsos. The men, however, are dominating the conversation. They talk loudly and drunkenly to their friends and cousins. They are all wearing relatively modern cloths, second hand clothing from the last two and a half decades of the western world that has found its way to Africa. “Fast, Fun, and Furious Pet Salon” is sitting next to “Dick Knows Videos”. From what I gather one is a driver from Iringa visiting his brother from another mother (a common family relation, the men get around while the women settle down for a life as a first, second, or third wife). The man in the knee length wool pea coat is a farmer, I’ve seen him before at tree seminars. The man in the puff paint Christmas sweatshirt is a timber worker, he once delivered 200 planks of pine to my house for a “garden fence”. Everyone in the hut has turned their attention to teaching me Kibena (the local language). “You’re drinking the drink” they say “now you must speak the language.” On a good day I can pick up a few words that I’ll maybe remember and use to impress someone later that day. On a Sunday afternoon, after a liter of ulanzi, I can’t seem to pick up anything. I slur through a few nouns and sip through a few more verbs. My mind slowly seems to unwind…

The bar maid brings me one ear of corn and repeats the Kibena word several times. This is a good one to learn I think, recounting the number of times I talk about corn in a week (it’s a lot), I should remember this. A moment later I’ve completely forgotten. I hear myself say “look, this corn’s got hair like mine” with a big silly grin on my face. The room fills with laughter. That was stupid I rebuke myself. Another glance down at the corn, however, and I find myself thinking, but it really does sort of look like me…

We’re all sharing insights that may or may not be jokes, but I laugh at them all anyway. My laugher comes to an abrupt halt when Christian, my Christian, straight arrow of a village chairman comes in.

“Greta!” he cries, “unakunywa ulanzi?!?”
“No.” I reply, “Just enjoying two liters of water. Karibu!” To my surprise Christian takes a seat next to me and takes a long slow drink from the bucket/cup.
“Wewe!” I scold “I thought you didn’t drink alcohol?!”
“This is ulanzi” he says “not alocohol”, a point my body is strong contesting. We share the final few sips of the 2 liter over some town gossip (of course about the town doctor), and I find myself a bit confused when I bring the cup to my lips to find but a drop left.
“Do you want some chips (fried potatoes)” David asks. The sun is descending and the club is getting more crowded.
“No.” I say.
“Some kiti moto?”
“No.”
“Another liter of ulanzi?” The question hangs in the air-
“No,” I manage, though the truth is I’m curious to see what would happen.
“What would you like to do?” David asks. What I really want to do is dance I think, glancing at the old bibi outside shaking and wiggling her worries away, but now is not the time. I’ve finished my bucket, preserved my dignity, and I even had a roll of good jokes—though I can’t quite remember what they were—that got everyone laughing. Quit while you’re ahead that pesky fly of an idea comes around, I promptly shoo it away. Quit while you’re ahead it persists, as flies often do, and I succumb.

“I think it’s time for me to go home” I say, shaking hands with the men, and giving knee-bending praise to the bibi who are now on their way to their 3rd liters.
“Karibu tena!” they say as I cautiously exit.
“Of course I’ll come back” I say, wondering why I’d spend most of my Sundays on the sidelines, “of course”.

I do my best not to stumble or breath on anyone who greets me on my way home. I cradle my ear of corn and hike up the slippery mud hill to my house. It’s dark by the time I struggle with the key and come under attack by Tusker my puppy. I light candles and look around my house. Tusker and Milo eye me expectantly, looking from me to their food bowls. I’m exhausted and a little tipsy, but it’s time to get to work. I light the jiko (charcoal stove) and get to work sifting rice for the animals. An hour later I serve the animals food, barely able to keep my eyes open. I slouch on the couch, listening to the rain on the roof and doze off.

In the morning Sophia shows up bright and early to borrow a jembe. As I rub my head and hand her the hoe I notice Wenna casually breastfeeding. At once it’s clear why the women stay away from the pombe: to nurse a hangover and several children doesn’t sound like the best way to start a week. I feed my six animals and thank mungu they’re not grabbing for my matiti.