a spot of tea in the village

I haven’t been keeping a journal since I’ve been here but there are occasional moments worth writing down. This was one of them.

Having found a decent enough routine I’ve gotten used to having tea in the afternoon between coming home from work and getting started on making dinner. Today, however, lunch was late (around 3:00) so come tea time the pot I’ve come to know and love is still dirty. I’ve been trying to do my share of the dishes but Lindah still thinks I’ll need help if she knows my pot isn’t clean. She even took a picture of my washing a pot yesterday while I called out “I wash pots at home y’know, this isn’t something new.”

Luckily for me, and not so luckily for Lindah, she was feeling tired and wanted to take a rest before dinner. Opportunity had struck! I announce I’m going to make tea knowing full well that my pot needs cleaning.
“But Ketty, the pot, it’s still dirty!”
“I know Lindah! But I can clean it!”
She hesitates, “…okay, you’ll find me here if you need help…”

“Triumph!” I think. Yet another opportunity to prove that somewhere, somehow I’m actually a fully functioning adult (my parents are laughing at this).

Now, this pot isn’t any kind of dirty, it’s freshly cooked nshima dirty. Nshima, for those who don’t know is made from ground corn kernels, meaning it’s very starchy. Meaning it can also be likened to glue…cooked to a pot and set out to dry.

Further complicating the issue my trusty cleaning utensils are as such: a tablespoon, a teaspoon, my fingers, and a dry corn cob minus the kernels. Cutting the boring details, 20 minutes later the inside of the pot is clean enough that my tea will only taste a little bit like nshima (I can’t be bothered with the outside for now).

Filling the pot with water, I head to the kitchen to make miracles happen. I’ve cleaned nshima from this pot before but only after a good twelve hour soak so I’m feeling surprisingly proud of my small accomplishment (while still happy no one else wanted tea and won’t have to taste the nshima-water that comes out of this pot). My stride to the kitchen gets arrogant, thankful I didn’t have to ask for any help.

But then, there it is, a fate worse than a dirty nshima pot – the fire has gone out and I will need to make a new one. Not wanting to come this far and then revert back to my child like status (although I think even the children could make a fire without trouble) I resolve to try to make my own fire. I’ve made the occasional fire in my lifetime but usually not without sometimes highly flammable to put in the centre like fire starter, or lighter fluid, so this is going to be interesting. Gathering all the necessities, grass, small sticks, medium sticks and big sticks I pile them up into what looks like something that might catch fire. The only advantage I’ve got here is that there are a few bits of charcoal still smoldering and I don’t have to do this from matches. Similar to cleaning the pot the in-between details are quite boring. It involved a lot of flapping with a pot lid and getting my hands quite sooty, but alas, victory was again mine. A fire was made. The water got hot. I had my tea. I’ve since made two other excellent fires and a few smoldering piles of grass as well.

I am happy to report though that I’ve gone from being offered help bathing in case I didn’t know how to washing some of my own clothes, heating my own bath water, preparing tea and relish (!) for nshima on my own and even cleaning the house I share with Lindah.

It’s been an interesting road learning how to get by at home, all the while I thought work was going to be the challenge. Turns out, it’s both.