Journeys

Today is Eid, the long awaited end to Ramadan. I find myself stuffed into a traditional Comorian dress, jammed into a crowded mini-bus, and set off down the road to Fumboni. Today is my host mom's wedding. The distance to Fumboni is short, but the journey is a long one. The roads here were once paved, but that is no longer the case in many parts of the county. Great swaths of the little road to the southern tip of the island have been worn away by time and rain. Now all that remains are narrow strips of asphalt that a bus might set two wheels upon.

I think I first imagined that people in Comoros, being so low down on the development index, would have little idea of what they are missing. But people here remember when the roads were drivable and when the power and water flowed. Those things left with the French Colonial power. The price of freedom I guess.

What all of this means for me is that I  experiencing the second worst bus ride of my life. It's rather like a rollercoaster without the fun. Or the safety equipment. It is a two hour bus ride from Moroni on the central coast to Fumboni on the southern tip. I'm convinced that you could walk it in four hours.

The bus hugs as much of the pavement as it can during the journey. The exciting part is when vehicles approach from the other direction. Then a game of chicken begins. Who will be forced to give up their tiny segment of asphalt? I'm not really sure. I had my eyes closed most of the time. But at the end of all of this was the beautiful town of Fumboni. And a journey of a different kind began.

Home Cooking

Cooking in Comoros is a labor of love. In a country largely devoid of electricity, ovens, refrigeration, and running water quick homemade meals are unheard of. Dinner preparations begin early in the day. My host aunt is in charge of cooking for her family. She leaves for the market shortly after dawn to collect the food stuffs she will need for that night's meal. The market is crowded, noisy, and overwhelming, to me at least. She navigates it easily, as she has done all her life. She returns with fruits and vegetables from one market, flour and oil from another, and cuts of fish and meat from a third. Some of these items will become tonight's dinner. Some will be redistributed to other family members.

The task begins with washing last night's giant pile of dishes in shallow buckets in the back yard. My host aunt hauls back breaking gallons of water from the cistern at the front of the house. The washing is cursory to my western sensibilities, but each dish washed requires significantly more effort than loading the dish washing machine back home. When this is taken care of, more women arrive to help. They bake root vegetables over coal fires in the yard, make Comorian bread in shallow pans over gas burners in the kitchen, and peel and juice various fruits while sitting on tiny little stools. Each little task is probably more effort than I would be willing to put into a whole meal. Spices are ground between rocks out back, and strange sauces are removed from a warm refrigerator that serves more as a cabinet than as a device to keep food cool.

I am tasked with taking a portion of the food they cook to Mama Linda, the less fortunate neighbor next door. I walk down the steep ledge to the tin shack in the compound next door and call through the scrap of cloth at the doorway. I am greeted with hugs and kisses and gratitude. Though she can hardly spare it, she sends me home with bread and fish made specially for me.

At the end of their labor they set a table with salad, baked bananas and cassava root, beef or goat, fish, flatbread, rice porridge, crepes, juice, and tea. The women don't partake in the feast they so painstakingly prepared though. It is for their male guests. They women will eat the leavings and burnt pieces from a communal platter in the backyard while others eat the fruits of their labor at the dining room table. I am given a seat of honor at the table with the men. I must admit that I am jealous though. The women's warm laughter from the backyard compliments the food much better than the men's silence.  

Comorian Voices: Yusuf

In the early evenings, before I set the table for dinner, I sit in the living room with my host father, Yusuf. It's during these times that he likes to talk about politics, his love for the people of Comoros, the Seattle Seahawks, and his new home- America. Yusuf grew up in Comoros, but like many young Comorians he had to seek higher education away from the tiny island country's blue waters. He traveled first to Egypt and then to Senegal. He returned home to Moroni for a time but his wandering feet soon led him to Europe, and finally to the USA. He is by all accounts a well traveled and well educated man. It has been gratifying, and often humbling, to see my homeland through his eyes.

Yusuf loves America. Loves it in a way that I think only immigrants can. America, to Yusuf, is a place where hard work can make dreams come true. His love for the Comorian people is boundless, but the poverty in his homeland is stifling. He hasn't given up hope, and looks for solutions to Comoros' many problems, but in many ways America has become his home.

I think Comoros has instilled in him an endlessly kind humor. His good-natured laughter fills the room as he recounts the time that a new coworker attempted to teach him to use the microwave, as if a man from Africa, no matter how well traveled or educated, could not possibly have seen a microwave. He tells me about the woman who expressed disbelief that people in Africa might have cars. She assumed that everyone rode some sort of animal for transport.

In fact, most Americans he meets talk about “Africa” like a single county, with one culture and one story. Yusuf accepts the duality in everything. He knows Comoros is beautiful, even if it is impoverished. In one breath he tells me about being berated as a thief for trying to help an man with his spilled groceries and in another he says “Shanna, the American people are a wonderful people. So welcoming to people like me- immigrants with dreams.”

I begin to cringe at these stories. He, still laughing, tells me to be kind to my countrymen. They simply know nothing of Africa and even less of Comoros. And neither do I, I have discovered. Everyday I find myself confronting my own assumptions and expectations, simultaneously shocked by the poverty and lack of resources and surprised by the ways in which the lives of Comorians and Americans are similar. Yusuf, with his kind laughter and never-ending patience, could teach us all a little about Comoros and about the assumptions we didn't know we had.