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with the wayward rockets. What are you all laughing at?
This somber query caused Oak to slide down the side of the car. Tears were coursing down his cheeks.
Merry was leaning against the hood and struggling to keep her balance.
Crazy muzungu I understand, muttered the farmer, but Maasai don't laugh. It is not funny. There was
anger in the man's voice, which only made Oak laugh all the harder. My neighbor Liliwa lost ten
chickens and a cow last year when one of the missiles landed near his house!
Merry promptly lost control of her legs and had to sit down next to the hysterical Oak. Kakombe turned
away. They would see his massive shoulders heaving up and down as he tried desperately to smother the
laughter welling up inside him.
When they finally managed to get themselves under control again, they offered the disgruntled farmer a
ride into town. Since the most recent attempt of the Tanzanian armed forces to independently enter the
twentieth century had apparently fizzled out, the man reluctantly accepted. As they drew close to
Morogoro they saw soldiers boredly taking down roadblocks and would-be ballistics experts fanning out
across cornfields in search of their errant children.
From what they could see as they drove through town the city had been spared. A few distant plumes of
smoke stained the perfectly blue sky like brown watercolor. Merchants were removing heavy planks
from windows and doorways. Already the streets were full of people hurriedly going nowhere. As Merry
had noted elsewhere, that look of empty urgency was characteristic of urban Tanzania.
The city itself was a dour collection of old stucco colonial buildings and a few feeble attempts at
modernization. A sign in front of a chaotic construction site announced the ongoing construction of a
six-story modern hotel. As with similar Communist-directed projects, those parts of the building that had
been finished were already starting to fall down.
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They drove slowly past the central market. The open-air square, which should have been a hive of local
activity, was empty except for a few old men and women selling what modest produce they'd managed
to sequester from sight of acquisitive government inspectors. Merry identified bunches of stunted
bananas, a few pineapples, some unimpressive fish. The only vendor doing real business stood behind a
stall selling used clothing, mostly battered and faded blue jeans and T-shirts he'd acquired God knew
where. She saw one sweatshirt emblazoned with the legend New York University. It was full of holes.
She wondered what the dealer was asking for it.
More people, people everywhere now, clad in shorts and sandals and old shirts. Then out the western
side of town and past the university, with its distant white buildings and single sleepy gate guard. Bicycles
instead of cars.
Wish I had a camera, Merry mused aloud as they drove past.
You would not want to take picture here, the farmer told her. Government facility, very dangerous.
Merry didn't believe him. What a school?
Last year, the farmer explained solemnly, a visiting muzungu was arrested for taking pictures on
university grounds. Police hold him for ten days. There is a big tamarind tree in front of the administration
building. That's what the muzungu was taking picture of. But the police don't believe him. They absolutely
cannot believe anyone would want picture of a tree. He sniffed derisively. School is rotten anyway.
Farming is better.
Your children will never get ahead thinking that way. Merry, Oak had noted already, had many
virtues, but diplomacy was not one of them.
They would not get ahead by going there, the farmer shot back. I tell you what kind of school that
place is. Six months ago the government decides to make special grants. Morogoro University gets one
hundred thousand shillings to spend any way it wants to. So the teachers, they argue and fight for weeks
how to spend the money. You want to know what they finally decide to spend it on?
Books? Merry guessed.
Beer. One hundred thousand shillings worth of beer.
That's terrible.
You think is terrible? They drank all of it in three days. That I can teach my children myself. No, I will
stick to my farm. I have corn and some papayas and I raise pigs for the non-Muslims to eat. Perhaps one
day things will be better.
By the time their guest asked to be dropped off, he had become a friend. It was all they could do to beg
off spending the night with the farmer and his family.
We're on an important errand and we can't spare the time, Oak told him as he leaned out the driver's
window. Maybe we'll catch you on the way back.
An errand. The farmer nodded knowingly. I guessed as much. I knew you could not be just tourists.
Not traveling with Maasai. He shook his head in wonder at the sight. Two muzungu, a laibon, and an
Alaunoni traveling together. I will not ask you the nature of your errand because I am not sure I want to
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know, but I will wish you good luck.
They shook hands all around and Merry overwhelmed the man by making him a gift of one of the
disposable razors from her stock. He was still waving when Oak glanced in the rear-view mirror a couple
of minutes later.
There stands the heart and future of this country, if his government will recognize him. Typical third
world country. They all want to build steel mills and new capitals and giant dams. Meanwhile the small
farmers and businessmen go broke and are forgotten. Nothing personal, old man.
I am not offended, Olkeloki replied. None of it matters to the Maasai. We have grass and cattle. We
do not need steel mills, dams, or farmers and businessmen. We never have and we never will.
You're going to have to change, Merry told him. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later the
twentieth century is going to overwhelm Maasailand too. You can't ignore it and you can't just keep
sending only your brightest kids to school.
We will try to adapt and also to retain our traditions. That is all we can do.
Oak didn't really want to ask the inevitable question but found he was unable to keep from doing so.
What happens if the governments of Kenya and Tanzania decide to break up the open grasslands and
make workers and civil servants and farmers out of the Maasai?
We will resist. If necessary, we will become workers and civil servants. But we will always stay [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szamanka888.keep.pl
with the wayward rockets. What are you all laughing at?
This somber query caused Oak to slide down the side of the car. Tears were coursing down his cheeks.
Merry was leaning against the hood and struggling to keep her balance.
Crazy muzungu I understand, muttered the farmer, but Maasai don't laugh. It is not funny. There was
anger in the man's voice, which only made Oak laugh all the harder. My neighbor Liliwa lost ten
chickens and a cow last year when one of the missiles landed near his house!
Merry promptly lost control of her legs and had to sit down next to the hysterical Oak. Kakombe turned
away. They would see his massive shoulders heaving up and down as he tried desperately to smother the
laughter welling up inside him.
When they finally managed to get themselves under control again, they offered the disgruntled farmer a
ride into town. Since the most recent attempt of the Tanzanian armed forces to independently enter the
twentieth century had apparently fizzled out, the man reluctantly accepted. As they drew close to
Morogoro they saw soldiers boredly taking down roadblocks and would-be ballistics experts fanning out
across cornfields in search of their errant children.
From what they could see as they drove through town the city had been spared. A few distant plumes of
smoke stained the perfectly blue sky like brown watercolor. Merchants were removing heavy planks
from windows and doorways. Already the streets were full of people hurriedly going nowhere. As Merry
had noted elsewhere, that look of empty urgency was characteristic of urban Tanzania.
The city itself was a dour collection of old stucco colonial buildings and a few feeble attempts at
modernization. A sign in front of a chaotic construction site announced the ongoing construction of a
six-story modern hotel. As with similar Communist-directed projects, those parts of the building that had
been finished were already starting to fall down.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
They drove slowly past the central market. The open-air square, which should have been a hive of local
activity, was empty except for a few old men and women selling what modest produce they'd managed
to sequester from sight of acquisitive government inspectors. Merry identified bunches of stunted
bananas, a few pineapples, some unimpressive fish. The only vendor doing real business stood behind a
stall selling used clothing, mostly battered and faded blue jeans and T-shirts he'd acquired God knew
where. She saw one sweatshirt emblazoned with the legend New York University. It was full of holes.
She wondered what the dealer was asking for it.
More people, people everywhere now, clad in shorts and sandals and old shirts. Then out the western
side of town and past the university, with its distant white buildings and single sleepy gate guard. Bicycles
instead of cars.
Wish I had a camera, Merry mused aloud as they drove past.
You would not want to take picture here, the farmer told her. Government facility, very dangerous.
Merry didn't believe him. What a school?
Last year, the farmer explained solemnly, a visiting muzungu was arrested for taking pictures on
university grounds. Police hold him for ten days. There is a big tamarind tree in front of the administration
building. That's what the muzungu was taking picture of. But the police don't believe him. They absolutely
cannot believe anyone would want picture of a tree. He sniffed derisively. School is rotten anyway.
Farming is better.
Your children will never get ahead thinking that way. Merry, Oak had noted already, had many
virtues, but diplomacy was not one of them.
They would not get ahead by going there, the farmer shot back. I tell you what kind of school that
place is. Six months ago the government decides to make special grants. Morogoro University gets one
hundred thousand shillings to spend any way it wants to. So the teachers, they argue and fight for weeks
how to spend the money. You want to know what they finally decide to spend it on?
Books? Merry guessed.
Beer. One hundred thousand shillings worth of beer.
That's terrible.
You think is terrible? They drank all of it in three days. That I can teach my children myself. No, I will
stick to my farm. I have corn and some papayas and I raise pigs for the non-Muslims to eat. Perhaps one
day things will be better.
By the time their guest asked to be dropped off, he had become a friend. It was all they could do to beg
off spending the night with the farmer and his family.
We're on an important errand and we can't spare the time, Oak told him as he leaned out the driver's
window. Maybe we'll catch you on the way back.
An errand. The farmer nodded knowingly. I guessed as much. I knew you could not be just tourists.
Not traveling with Maasai. He shook his head in wonder at the sight. Two muzungu, a laibon, and an
Alaunoni traveling together. I will not ask you the nature of your errand because I am not sure I want to
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
know, but I will wish you good luck.
They shook hands all around and Merry overwhelmed the man by making him a gift of one of the
disposable razors from her stock. He was still waving when Oak glanced in the rear-view mirror a couple
of minutes later.
There stands the heart and future of this country, if his government will recognize him. Typical third
world country. They all want to build steel mills and new capitals and giant dams. Meanwhile the small
farmers and businessmen go broke and are forgotten. Nothing personal, old man.
I am not offended, Olkeloki replied. None of it matters to the Maasai. We have grass and cattle. We
do not need steel mills, dams, or farmers and businessmen. We never have and we never will.
You're going to have to change, Merry told him. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later the
twentieth century is going to overwhelm Maasailand too. You can't ignore it and you can't just keep
sending only your brightest kids to school.
We will try to adapt and also to retain our traditions. That is all we can do.
Oak didn't really want to ask the inevitable question but found he was unable to keep from doing so.
What happens if the governments of Kenya and Tanzania decide to break up the open grasslands and
make workers and civil servants and farmers out of the Maasai?
We will resist. If necessary, we will become workers and civil servants. But we will always stay [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]