A Loaf of Life

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I kneaded the dough, between my fingers at first, and eventually palm to palm as the flour whitened my hands. I felt it giving way to assertive wrists and succumbing to pressure-- growing in its value with every "thunk" on the wooden surface.

Bread: the edible representation of tough love-- what appears cumbersome, almost violent in its making, comes out full, malleable, and desired by all.

Last week, I baked the honey yeast loaf with hints of cardamom. Still warm from its makeshift charcoal oven, I concealed it in a satchel with a jar of jam in preparation for my unassuming traipse to the village square.

There, in her little shop, mama Enni weighs out portions of sugar, nails, and other small scale goods for eager customers returning from the farm. Working sun up to sun down, only Sunday is saved for washing clothes, maintaining her home, and spending time with her three children. Mama's husband lives in town, so she splits many days between swinging a hoe over head in their fields and rushing to keep her business afloat.

Her third job is guiding foreigners who come up this way for hiking. It's an odd feeling doing laundry from a bucket only to look up and see a toe-eyed Deuter advertisement ogling his way through the village. Still, tourism keeps the economy ripe in Kilimanjaro, and no one minds the visitors. Mama's basic English gives her a monopoly on the lonely foreigners who pop their heads up over the mountain, but on those days she closes her shop. There's simply no one else.

"Working for something, Keti! Not working for nothing!"

Mama's also the chair-woman of the Mama's Village Community Bank. Needless to say, I've only seen the woman eat once.

When I arrived to her shop, bread in tow, she was standing outside chatting with the seamstress (another member of the Mama's Group) and whatever loiterers darkened her door.

We exchanged tribal greetings

"Mmaame!"

Once I came close, I switched to a hushed tone,

"I brought a gift! I'm going inside...it's just for the mamas"

The seamstress practically lost her needles as the three of us scurried behind Mama's dark counter.

The thing is- everyone wants fresh bread. Obviously, this is cross cultural. What's not necessarily cross cultural (anymore) is that men are fed first, always. Sometimes until there's nothing tasty for the mamas. It's so institutionalized that it goes without saying. At parties, when mamas finally retire from cooking, teary-eyed from smoke and arms full of food, the men immediately line up. The women don't even move until every man has been served. They are then content with the scraps of goat intestine that are left behind. It's assumed that this practice is universally accepted. I've gone to village celebrations as a group of 5 with male Peace Corps Volunteers and watched as only 4 places are set.

Not today... not this bread!

The three of us hid behind the countertop giggling at our act of resistance. Mama Enni discreetly waved another mama in from the road. This mama appeared impatient with the diversion until she found us; three little mice munching in the cupboard. Her face lit up, wide-eyed, and she went right for the jam.

Rebels with a cause.

We parlay one Baba. Working just next door, he sensed the scramble. His head poked in, but his lowered voice showed us he respected the mission.

"Nionje!!!" (I want to try!!)

The mamas glanced at each other and back at him. With measured disdain, one tore her piece in half and passed it over. Allies.

Four of us polished off the loaf, Mama wrapping up the last bit for her three year old, Vanessa. Full and smiling, we were satisfied with our quiet victory.

It's no surprise that a week later, I'm at Mamas house teaching her the ways. This week has been more challenging than most, and I look forward to the diversion, though the process will be tedious.

I arrive at 4pm and by 9 we finally sit down to a warm loaf of onion bread with bowls of rice and beans. 10 family members gather around as I translate the recipe to Swahili, Mama helping me with new words like "sticky" and "spices." We catch up on the ville gossip, me learning more than I'd like about which mama ate the chickens and who's family should replace them. Sleepy, we hug and I hike back down the mountain, understanding the process of making something matter. On and off throughout the week, I battle tears as I face the challenges of life in the village, but I've learned that every hardship does, in fact, pass.

"Punch the dough down. Let it rise again"

I don't believe in no-knead bread.



Eat well and be full with what matters,

Kate

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Photos

Project update- our Orange Fleshed Sweet Potato school-garden
My Counterpart, Abraham (also, village dad), educates his community about the benefits of planting OFSP.

Comments

[Home and Away]

I hope that your treat of baked bread, to be shared among the women first, becomes inculturated...
Maybe you can start a rumor that this kind of bread can only be eaten by women as it would cause the men to get sick. Best of wishes!