One of our brothers...
I turn around once more and see through the window how light slowly defeats the darkness. Pastel colours on the horizon announce the arrival of a new day. I cancel the alarm on my phone and get up, another attempt to catch some sleep will be useless. My mind is too occupied by what this day might bring, my ears too focussed on the noises outside; do I hear the engine of a boat coming our way?
The night was long and I haven't slept well at all. Yesterday somebody from one of the neighbouring villages was send to our lodge with a message; the body of a dead mzungu (white person) had washed up on the beach in Kawanda, a village that is a two hours walk from ours. What would we do about it?
Our initial response was not filled with much action. We are no thrill seekers and certainly don't want to get involved in something that is not our business. Besides that, in this region, where the small flame of a rumour can ignite a large fire because without internet and cell phone reception nothing can get confirmed, rumours grow very quickly out of proportion. Who said that this was true? Throughout the day we talked with people we trust; the village headman, our staff and some friends in the village, to find wisdom and confirmation. They all seemed to be saying the same. Yes, it is definitely a mzungu and because it's one of your brothers and not one of ours, it would be good if you take responsibility and go there. Throughout the day my brain reminded me of tragic cases that I read about in the news. Stories of European backpackers who had died in jungles and deserts. Search parties were send because the family wanted to know what happened, they wanted closure. The family of this person, whoever it was, would certainly want the same. Pictures and stories would help them but the local people don't like drowned bodies, the association with angry spirits is too big and they will probably want to bury it as fast as possible. Possibly even before the police, who are not known for acting very fast, has arrived. A conviction grows. We are the only 'Mzungus' in the area so we should go and see if we can help. Everybody we ask agrees. A boat is quickly organised and I pack my bag for the next morning.
The sun has just started its daily journey around the sky when my friend Marci and I get into the boat. With us is Samson, our trusted friend and translater. We will need him to interpret what people say and don't say and to not make any cultural mistakes. The early morning light highlights the splendid green mountains. It is rain season and the land is lush because of the abundance of water. I see the beauty but don't enjoy it. I feel nervous. What will we find? I am apprehensive about the sadness we might encounter and don't really have a plan of action. The boat stops at a small beach to drop somebody off. Children who were playing stop their games and stare at us. "Mwauka uli?" I greet. In reply I get nothing but solemn stares. "It would be inappropriate for them to greet you." Samson explains. "They know that you are on your way to the Mzungu's funeral." News travels faster than we do.
Interactions in our area follow ancient rules and I am happy that Samson is with us when we arrive in Kawanda. Without his guidance I would have broken the old rulrs and we would have offended people in the process. When you arrive in a village, whatever the purpose of your visit might be, you first go to the village headman to introduce yourself and to make your intentions clear. We hear that the village headman is absent and are guided to one of the elders instead. I don't need to introduce myself; he remembers me from when I walked through his village a couple of months ago. When he hears why we have come he tells us that our intel was wrong; the mzungu wasn't found in Kawanda but in Katula, a village further down the lake. He also knows that the police has come and that they have already buried the Mzungu but we should still go to pay him respect. To proof the validity of his knowledge and to find out if there is anything else we should know he decides to call the police officer. (In Kawanda is cell phone reception.) I try to follow the conversation in Tumbuka but don't understand much until the elder suddenly repeats the words of the police man with a broad smile. "Mzungu yayi? Mzungu yayi!" That I understand. It's not a mzungu. The elder puts down the phone and sighs with relief. "It's not a mzungu, it was a local fisherman. They don't know who he is but his skin had turned white after spending a long time in the water so the people thought it was a mzungu."
The massive sense of relief that I see on everybodies face is a little confusing. "It's still sad because somebody died and somewhere a family is missing a man and maybe they will never know what happened." I say. The people around me half heartedly agree. "It's sad but at least it's not a mzungu." The Mzungus who they get to know have very little reason to die. Most are young, strong and healthy and if they are sick they have money to go to a hospital. The most likely explanation for a dead mzungu would be an act of violence and that would be devastating because our area is regarded as one of the safest in the country. The fact that the body is 'just a local fisherman' is far less concerning.
Samson and the elder ask if we want to go to Katula to see where it all happened. I decline. That would be sticking my nose into something that's not my business. When I thought that he was a Mzungu I felt a responsibility to deal with his dead in a 'mzungu way' but now that I know that he was an African it is better to let his own people handle it a the way his family would approve of. The others agree. "We thought he was one of your brothers but he is one of ours. We will now do what needs to be done in our way".
My heart is lighter as the boat heads back home. I watch the women wash on the shore and the children play on the beach. I appreciate the beauty of the mountains and the uniqueness of the place that we get to call home. When we arrive in our village we do the last thing we can do before we can put this case to rest; we go to the village headmen and tell them the story to stop the rumours. One of them hardly speaks a word of English and I wonder if he understands what I am trying to say until his serious face dissapears behind a wide toothless smile. He takes my hand as shakes it repeatedly while he exclaims to his wife next to him: "Mzungu yayi! Good news."
The night was long and I haven't slept well at all. Yesterday somebody from one of the neighbouring villages was send to our lodge with a message; the body of a dead mzungu (white person) had washed up on the beach in Kawanda, a village that is a two hours walk from ours. What would we do about it?
Our initial response was not filled with much action. We are no thrill seekers and certainly don't want to get involved in something that is not our business. Besides that, in this region, where the small flame of a rumour can ignite a large fire because without internet and cell phone reception nothing can get confirmed, rumours grow very quickly out of proportion. Who said that this was true? Throughout the day we talked with people we trust; the village headman, our staff and some friends in the village, to find wisdom and confirmation. They all seemed to be saying the same. Yes, it is definitely a mzungu and because it's one of your brothers and not one of ours, it would be good if you take responsibility and go there. Throughout the day my brain reminded me of tragic cases that I read about in the news. Stories of European backpackers who had died in jungles and deserts. Search parties were send because the family wanted to know what happened, they wanted closure. The family of this person, whoever it was, would certainly want the same. Pictures and stories would help them but the local people don't like drowned bodies, the association with angry spirits is too big and they will probably want to bury it as fast as possible. Possibly even before the police, who are not known for acting very fast, has arrived. A conviction grows. We are the only 'Mzungus' in the area so we should go and see if we can help. Everybody we ask agrees. A boat is quickly organised and I pack my bag for the next morning.
The sun has just started its daily journey around the sky when my friend Marci and I get into the boat. With us is Samson, our trusted friend and translater. We will need him to interpret what people say and don't say and to not make any cultural mistakes. The early morning light highlights the splendid green mountains. It is rain season and the land is lush because of the abundance of water. I see the beauty but don't enjoy it. I feel nervous. What will we find? I am apprehensive about the sadness we might encounter and don't really have a plan of action. The boat stops at a small beach to drop somebody off. Children who were playing stop their games and stare at us. "Mwauka uli?" I greet. In reply I get nothing but solemn stares. "It would be inappropriate for them to greet you." Samson explains. "They know that you are on your way to the Mzungu's funeral." News travels faster than we do.
Interactions in our area follow ancient rules and I am happy that Samson is with us when we arrive in Kawanda. Without his guidance I would have broken the old rulrs and we would have offended people in the process. When you arrive in a village, whatever the purpose of your visit might be, you first go to the village headman to introduce yourself and to make your intentions clear. We hear that the village headman is absent and are guided to one of the elders instead. I don't need to introduce myself; he remembers me from when I walked through his village a couple of months ago. When he hears why we have come he tells us that our intel was wrong; the mzungu wasn't found in Kawanda but in Katula, a village further down the lake. He also knows that the police has come and that they have already buried the Mzungu but we should still go to pay him respect. To proof the validity of his knowledge and to find out if there is anything else we should know he decides to call the police officer. (In Kawanda is cell phone reception.) I try to follow the conversation in Tumbuka but don't understand much until the elder suddenly repeats the words of the police man with a broad smile. "Mzungu yayi? Mzungu yayi!" That I understand. It's not a mzungu. The elder puts down the phone and sighs with relief. "It's not a mzungu, it was a local fisherman. They don't know who he is but his skin had turned white after spending a long time in the water so the people thought it was a mzungu."
The massive sense of relief that I see on everybodies face is a little confusing. "It's still sad because somebody died and somewhere a family is missing a man and maybe they will never know what happened." I say. The people around me half heartedly agree. "It's sad but at least it's not a mzungu." The Mzungus who they get to know have very little reason to die. Most are young, strong and healthy and if they are sick they have money to go to a hospital. The most likely explanation for a dead mzungu would be an act of violence and that would be devastating because our area is regarded as one of the safest in the country. The fact that the body is 'just a local fisherman' is far less concerning.
Samson and the elder ask if we want to go to Katula to see where it all happened. I decline. That would be sticking my nose into something that's not my business. When I thought that he was a Mzungu I felt a responsibility to deal with his dead in a 'mzungu way' but now that I know that he was an African it is better to let his own people handle it a the way his family would approve of. The others agree. "We thought he was one of your brothers but he is one of ours. We will now do what needs to be done in our way".
My heart is lighter as the boat heads back home. I watch the women wash on the shore and the children play on the beach. I appreciate the beauty of the mountains and the uniqueness of the place that we get to call home. When we arrive in our village we do the last thing we can do before we can put this case to rest; we go to the village headmen and tell them the story to stop the rumours. One of them hardly speaks a word of English and I wonder if he understands what I am trying to say until his serious face dissapears behind a wide toothless smile. He takes my hand as shakes it repeatedly while he exclaims to his wife next to him: "Mzungu yayi! Good news."
