Right now I am sitting in a “numba ya toli” –metal house—on the bed of my host brother Fadel. A neighborhood friend Nasser (the “r” is always rolled) is by me, working on his English and reading everything I write (without understanding). It’s a daily routine –we sit in bed after sharing Iftar (dinner that breaks the fast of Ramadan), and Nasser practices English with me as Fadel (and sometimes other boys) watches music videos. I like this simple routine. It can be really boring at times (in which case I say, “Tsi lemewa. Mgamuendo nalale. Lala unono” and go to bed).
People tend to talk at me, and I tend to not understand a word of the Shingadzidja language (I nod my head and smile a lot). But it’s fun to watch everyone interact with each other. When I arrived here, I expected conversation to be similar to home –that people would always act like they do in the rooms of American families. Maybe they would share jokes, gossip about the townspeople, and talk about pop culture or relationships. From my limited understanding of the language, all of that exists, but we also just talk about life.
(In Shingadzidja or French) “What did you do today?” “Where were you this morning?” “What were you doing at Vulo Vulo?” “No Shingareze (English), speak Shingadzidja!” “Did you buy anything?” “Did you hear the news about the UK succeeding from the EU?” “My neighbor said she heard from her brother who had a friend that was the manager of a waitress at Hotel Moroni that you had pizza at the hotel. Was it good?” (I’m not exaggerating, by the way. News even as simple as what I had for lunch seems to pass through the whole island within an hour).
Sometimes, it feels like I’m being interrogated. Why should they care about what I’m doing, or how I liked the pizza someone thought was interesting enough to mention? But, at the same time, it’s kind of sweet that they care so much. Maybe, since it is an island country there isn’t enough to do –caring for people passes the time. But I like to think it is more than that. People here really care. It’s suffocating for sure, but a kind of suffocating that I could bear for the next few years.
A Moveable Hunger 