The Daze of Our Lives

In days of yore, the tip of the mast sinking on the horizon was the last sight of departing explorers; weeping mothers shook their hankies in farewell and that was that. In this day and age, things are a bit different. The traces of Nicole left in Phily are not so romantic: two loud demanding cats and several electric bills.

But that was there and this is now. Marta's log entries capture well our Daily Antics. I hope, dear Reader, only to add a bit of spice to the sadza, so to speak.

Africa has variously been described as a Land of Mystery, the Dark Continent, a Deep Jungle. Such words do no justice to this place; words indeed have failed us frequently on this trip. It is apt, therefore, to make the Failure of Words the subject of this missive.

Aye, it is a vast topic: words fail to explain why deoderant which works perfectly well in the northern hemisphere falls short of its goal here. nor can words account for the vast quantities of sugar accompany every drink order. A Divide of a Different Sort also exists here, commonly called Language.

Having learned how to say "thank you" and "hello" in Swahili, Marta and I quickly moved on to more useful terms, such as "Nyadjay?", "Sassa?" and "Mambo?" (roughly: "whassup?") and adopted "Feet" or "Feetie" as the appropriate response. Our attempts at the more mundane interactions, such as "What is your name?" have not yet been mastered. Repeated attempts to put this question to a waiter ended quickly when he finally asked us in perfect English, "I'm sorry, I just can't understand what you mean." I could see the unasked question in his eyes: "Are you OK?"

Helene, our friend from the Congo, speaks to us only in French. During our sojourn in Zimbabwe, Marta and I have attempted to revive the French of our High School years. The result has been A Secret Language All Our Own. I understand Marta's French perfectly, as she does mine. We delight each other by suddenly remembering how to say, "No big deal" or claiming to remember how to say, "That is the most stupid dog."

I have attempted to document some words on my tape recorder, which is in my pocket at all times, making me quite Covert and also uncomfortable when seated. Alas, this machine failed me when I needed it most: to capture the words of our friend George, relating the time he took his cat mountain climbing. Although it does not exist in digital memory, it lives on in me and Marta: weeks have passed since that Tale was Told, but when one of us begins to laugh without obvious cause, the other knows that it is Memory that has provoked the outburst. "I was so mad at Tom, I could not even speak to him! I put him in the car! and locked the door! I had to have two Tusker, where he could look out the window and see me!"

Words were not necessary for the children in Mupfure to express what they thought of me and Marta: peals of laughter accompanied our every movement. We could not move, speak, or gesture without a crowd forming and hilarity ensuing.

Words were lost for our waiter last night when, in response to her request for more water, he attempted to remove Marta's empty glass from the table; no, she said, she'll keep the same glass, she'd just like more water. As he walked away in mute confusion, we realized that nary a water pitcher had been seen. The waiter's baffled query: how to bring this strange American more water when she insists on retaining the empty glass? Does she want a glass of water to sit alongside her empty glass? Is she keeping track? Is this what Americans do?

Young children need no words to express their dismay at our appearance. Although we consider ourselves presentable, if we approach or wave, almost invariable, the mouth opens wide, eyes squeeze tears, and a wail emerges that lets us know that we must COME NO CLOSER!

I have wearied your ears, no doubt, dear Reader, to say nothing of your eyes. I will find more interesting words for the next chapter : Land Transfers, the Dark Side.

- Nicole

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