Kipilefti

We hummed, sang, and whistled “Bad Romance” all weekend: a friend of Jess’s (well, a friend of all of ours, but particularly of Jess’s) came to visit, and brought with her a “Popular in America” mix. I’ve really grown to like pop, American and otherwise, while I’ve been here. Not sure why.

I caught the minibus to Bulongwa on Thursday, keeping our guest company, and we had a wonderful weekend. Good food, as always; slightly belated green beer (for the others) and green milk-and-Kaluha (for me); general merriment. She was the first real PCV guest we’ve had here, the only others being the folks who spent the night here before we hiked down to Matema last summer. Everyone who makes the trek out here says that they now completely understand why we don’t leave much: the beauty of the environment (and the agreeability of the company) and the price, duration, and scariness of the journey combine to keep us in Makete most of the time.

Coming home, I got a ride from the local teachers’ union representative, a guy who speaks great English. I was enjoying talking to him until he turned the conversation to immigration policies for foreigners who marry Americans, my marital status, and American polygamy laws. There’s a reason all my Tanzanian friends are women. To retaliate, I asked him questions about his wife and his six children (the oldest of whom is my age) and tried to stay absorbed in the gorgeous, sunset-lit landscape. As we drove into town, all the buildings were glowing.