Lost in Translation...

Now that I have risen from the ashes of my wine stupor like a phoenix, I can talk about the Georgian supra.

Let’s bypass the fact that I haven’t posted in 10 months (since Tanzania) and now live in Haiti and jump right into how I ended up in the middle of Caucasia. I am here for a work conference.  I would have never chosen to visit on my own volition. But I have been completely surprised by this charming, friendly, super interesting little country smashed between Europe and Asia. It’s beautiful and dated-- there are a plethora of gas masks and Joseph Stalin memorabilia for sale at your local market.

It’s this geographical positioning between these two worlds that make their food so interesting. Before I get there, let’s start with the people: Georgians are super welcoming. You step off your plane and “Tbilisi Loves You” is engraved in the floor. 

Brown people, you will be stared at- mainly with intrigue because the city and nation is WHITE. There are sprinklings of darker skinned Eurasians and a small bit of the Indian and Bangladeshi community, but it is mostly a sea of white faces. You may even be asked to take pictures with folk (I am not a fan of those moments for personal reasons, but don’t let my apprehension stop your party.)

There is a long-standing saying here that “A guest is a gift from God.” and the Georgian people definitely showed me that love-- from toasting to my presence to sharing a warm embrace and a glass of wine. That is the kind of welcome you receive during a supra, as well.

Simple definition: A supra is a traditional Georgian FEAST. 

In their social culture, it is a time for family, friends and visitors to indulge in food (SO MUCH FOOD), wine (OMG, SO MUCH WINE) and traditional music/dancing. And there are toasts.

So many toasts. Toasts to the supra. Toasts to family. Toasts to love. Toasts to dead relatives and lost friends. Toasts to childless women. Toasts to you.

Do no go to a supra if you want a quiet, uninterrupted dinner.

Do go if you want to laugh, eat until you burst and drink until you can’t anymore.

Here are some of my recommended MUST HAVE traditional foods (this list is not exhaustive!)

Khachapuri (and Mtsvadi)

Khachapuri is essentially a baked bread bowl with a TON of cheese and butter, topped with an egg. When you get the dish, you are supposed to mix the egg into the cheese, break the bread knobs off and use it to dunk into the molten center.

It is HEAVY, and surprisingly yummy. I had two bites--but don’t think my body could handle the whole thing.

The star of the show for me for most of my Georgian meals was mtsvadi of “meat over fire”. Whether it was chicken, lamb or pork, it was deliciously grilled with a spice concoction that could only have come from the Upper Upper levels of heaven. 

Khinkali

You would think you’ve stepped into a Dim Sum shop once a plate of Khinkali is set before you. They are big and filled with pork, beef or potato, along with a mixture of chiles, cilantro and fenugreek. To eat them like a Georgian pro, you grab the knob, take a small bite to drink the meat juices then consume the whole thing.

Pkhali

Before we get to what this green flower-shaped thing is, I have to say my favorite part of Georgia is the fact that almost EVERYTHING incorporates walnuts and/or pomegranates- two things that are super expensive in Haiti. There is a pomegranate-based sauce served with fish and beef. Walnuts make up salad dressing and stuffings. They touch every part of cuisine here.

Pkhali is minced/chopped vegetables that is almost paste-like. That may not sound appealing to you, but it is amazing. It comes in a carrot and beet variety...but my favorite was the spinach one. It is minced spinach with ground walnuts, onions, garlic, coriander, red pepper and fenugreek- topped with a few pomegranate seeds, of course.

Lobio

Beans. High and complex flavor profile of delicious beans. This dish is usually served in an earthenware pop and can range from a soup like consistency to a thick stew. I dipped my amazing Georgian flatbread into it.

There are so many more foods to try in Georgia, but these were my favorites.

I was surprised. I had my misgivings. I thought this would be the land of bread, potatoes and sausages. There was a ton of bread, so much more. From olives and cheeses to hearty stews and wine, I’ve definitely had my fill of Tbilisi. 

OH YEA, the STAR of the SHOW! Wine. 

I was invited to Maputo, Mozambique by an organization I adore (Girls Not Brides) to see the progress in the nation after it joined Egypt, Zambia and Ethiopia as a growing number of governments developing national strategies to end child marriage.

These girls are amazing. They are child activists working to ensure their own and the futures of their young girl peers. A lot of the initiatives in the country are aiming to increase empowerment and education for women and girls because....simply put, girls always get the short end of the stick- intentionally and/or by necessity. Child marriage is most prevalent in the poorest nations, the nations where families may depend on bride prices or where a girl is more useful as an asset than a student.

Let me throw a disclaimer here now. I love Zambia. I love Tanzania, and I love the people I have met from Malawi, Uganda, Ghana, Rwanda, Liberia and Zimbabwe. So my thoughts are written in nothing but respect and self-reflection. My thoughts also stem from a segment of my Global Health Corps fellowship training at Yale where we discussed and analyzed the “one-sided narrative”. [My favorite example: Haiti is nothing but a wasteland of poverty.]

This discussion on the one-sided narrative was important for us, because we were on the brink of departing for our various stations in underserved communities in the US and eastern/southern Africa. It was especially interesting to me as I am a journalist, and the media can lean a certain way its’ coverage of a region. 

Except, many Africans (like most people everywhere) have a one-sided narrative as well.  Let me explain. 

 This post comes from various conversations where I learned that the history of the diaspora (us brown folk outside of Africa) is relatively unknown among the various African individuals I have spoken to (I like to talk to people). That is fine. I happened to take African studies and African history courses at Howard University. I know that is not the norm for the United States education system. I also didn’t/don’t assume that students in Lusaka/Accra/Lagos/Nairobi/Capetown take Af-Am courses. What bothered me were in specific convos -one regarding hair texture(….will get back to that), one involving patois and creoles, and one involving vodou. 

I will be honest. I was offended. I was explaining some West Indian traditions and was met with both laughter and the proclamation that voudou is worshipping the devil. Random, but it made me annoyed then livid. I think I got upset because many things, in the Caribbean, like voudou, came out of African slaves adapting to a foreign land- an actual attempt at preservation of African heritage. This is the same reason why many our languages stem from mixtures of French, Portuguese, West African and Niger-Congo languages. We were brought to a new place, forced into servitude, told to eliminate all traditional habits/ways of living, and told to worship a [very pale] God we’ve never known.

 So yes, I was offended- as a lover of my West Indian history and as a perpetual learner. Ultimately, I just hate when people speak on what they don’t know. Especially when they are loud and wrong. 

I think I was also offended because throughout my work and travel in different regions, I too, have been met with things I have little understanding of culturally. Dowries are still used. As a woman in many places, your father still expects and receives livestock for your hand in marriage. That is different to me, yet I do not laugh. The concept of tribes and chiefs is foreign to me, yet I do not scoff. I read, research and understand. 

 I think there is a false sense that the continent of Africa is the purest source of all things blackness, as if the continent is the 100 proof to the African American diaspora’s adulterated bathtub moonshine. I actually shared this belief. But unfortunately many people of color share a skewed sense of identity and a healthy dose of self-hate. 

 When I said I was moving to Zambia, and even when I traveled to Kenya, I usually got one of two reactions: 

1. Why? Where will you live? Do they have Internet? *insert screwed up face* 

2. Oh my goodness! You are going to the Motherland. It is going to be amazing. Yell me all about it. I bet the women are beautiful. Buy me Shea butter. 

In actuality, all of these are one-sided narratives- one good and one bad. The second one saddened me however, because since I have been in Lusaka (about 3 weeks) I have seen, and noted with my flat mate, the majority of terrible…..terrible, horrible weaves. I am talking exposed tracks and synthetic hair. In addition, layers of –too light- foundation. The presence of a Zambian woman with her natural hair out last night stood out to us. 

Similarly, the diversity of African American hair is a concept that, to me, seems to be lost. Everyday at least 3 different women touch or ask about my hair. Is that a wig? Is it weave? How does it curl like that? I wish my hair looked like that. Where are you from? What do your parents look like? Is your hair like your mom or dads? 

It annoys me because it is the thought process that was subtle in the US, but still annoyed me: “You cannot be just black with hair that curls differently than I think black people’s hair is.” Black people, AND BLACK HAIR, are not monoliths. We are diverse. Different, but not better or worse, than one another.

 Back to my mention of a “skewed sense of identity and a healthy dose of self-hate”, even here, women would rather have long, straight (albeit matted and noticeably fake) hair than the glory of natural black hair. I won’t delve in “European standards of beauty” or the common representation of women in high fashion magazines and pop culture. 

 My assumption that Zambia would be a sea of kinky, curly, coily, beautiful natural haired and self aware women was also a one-sided narrative I had personally painted. (Sidebar….but when I tell you these women are BEAUTIFUL. #love) 

 Since I am spitting out deep feels that I am having a hard time articulating- I have an unpopular opinion of never feeling like I am “coming home” when visiting or living in Africa.. People (friends from home that have traveled/lived in Africa) get nostalgic. They tell me I will find my Zen, I will be at peace within. Maybe I am not romantic. Maybe I am too far removed. Maybe if I wasn’t broke and brought a DNA testing kit, I would feel differently if I knew my great, great, great, great grandmother called Senegal [read: a specific country/region] her home.   But in a metaphorical sense, the continent is like my grandmother –if my mother was stolen at birth and I am now meeting my grandmother at 40. I look like my grandmother. I know we are family and many of our mannerisms are amusingly the same, but that is all we have in common. 

It happened as I was standing in the doorway of our bathroom. The single, shared room we inhabit until our two bedroom apartment is ready. The si gle shared room that also houses my modest two suitcases (because I follow the rules) and her three….and overstuffed duffle bag (because she is fabulous and cares about outfit choices).

I must start from after dinner. It was unremarkable. We wanted Indian….some places are closed on Mondays in Lusaka so we settled for questionable pizza, fish and chips and a burger with our other fellow, Doris.

We walked back. The power was out. Typical with the recent Lusaka (maybe all of Zambia, i don’t know actually.) loadshedding. Some Zambians tell me the government is selling energy. Some say the rains were low so the majority hydropower the country depends on is depleting too rapidly. So there are blackouts every day.

Anyway, we made it through tonight’s four hours. The lights comes on. Our phones can charge. We are happy.

We realize we have no water. Just an annoying thin stream from the sink. It is just our room though. But it is ok because we are the positivity room. Not much phases us. We shower in other people’s rooms.

Kenya is able to wash her face and brush her teeth in the stream upon her shower return. I think I can do the same.

My face was covered in black soap and I had been watching the stream lessen. Bright idea….i will catch the water in a tea cup so that i can collect enough to splash my face. The water slows to a drip.

I warned Kenya. I told her I hold emotions in until I have a weird cry laugh manic moment.

Drip.

I start giggling.

Drip.

I start crying.

Kenya starts laughing.

Drip.

I am now alternating between uncontrollable laughter and weeping. I am laughing so hard that I have to pee. But I must hold it, because I cannot flush the toilet if I use it.

My tears help wash some of my soap away. The teacup helps wash away most of the rest. My face feels hard like dried glue now.

My bus to JFK leaves at 4 am. Instead of catching a nap, I am writing and trying to figure out what necessity I have forgotten to pack. My flight leaves at 11:20am. I am ecstatic, uncertain, weary and electrified. 

I will be working in Lusaka, Zambia for Akros, an NGO that focuses on Malaria prevention, strengthening health systems in developing countries and WASH (water, sanitation & hygiene). 

The latter is my favorite and the sector I will be working with the most at Akros.

 WASH isn’t sexy. Poop cannot be marketed in a hashtag campaign or in the same way as “Feed the Children” tear-jerking advertisements. Where people poop and why there are poop particles in water sources is not benefit dinner convo. I don’t know when this became important to me, but it was in my beloved Haiti that I explored some sustainable solutions (<--my graduate thesis and example of a sustainable aid method.)

It is prettier and easier to get funding for AIDS than latrines, yet it is the deficiencies in sanitation and hygiene and water that impact communities deeply overlapping into and effecting education, women and girl safety, economic productivity and nutrition.

Take diarrhea. Diarrhea kills about 760,000 children under 5 each year, according to WHO. If it doesn’t kill, it leads to cognitive and physical development delay. Yet, diarrheal disease is entirely curable and preventable with safe drinking water sources and proper hygiene practices.

Take the safety of women and girls and their education. For many parts of the world, nighttime is the only time available for women without access to a latrine to defecate. Besides internal health repercussions, this leaves the women vulnerable to assault or harassment. The lack of private and separate facilities in schoolhouses is one reason for low enrollment for girls, especially during menstruation.

Without water, there is no hygiene. Without hygiene, we cannot begin to tackle child mortality, disease reduction and poverty. As long as communities are forced to practice open defecation, healthy families are impossible. It is an undeniable human right. 

So yes, somehow I became a journalist passionate about poop....and education, women issues, nutrition and environmental sustainability.

I do not want to throw money on issues. I want to help in capacity building, in-house problem solving. I do not know what I did to deserve the blessing of being able to combine everything that I love (journalism/storytelling, advocacy, WASH), but when you love what you do....it will never feel like work.

See you soon Zambia.

Mombasa and Nairobi are like siblings- from the same family, but beautifully and vastly different. While the Kenyan capital is bustling and urban, the coastal gem of Mombasa is quieter and slower. Nairobi is cosmopolitan, one of the largest cities in all of Africa with 3 million inhabitants. Oftentimes its reputation precedes it, home of the world’s biggest slums, but it deserves a visit. The people are one of a kind and there is so much to take in, just beware of its notorious traffic! 

 Mombasa, predominantly Muslim and more reserved, has a subtle charm that stretches from Old Town to the beauty of the coast. It borders the Indian Ocean and it’s the sea that brings the spices to the city. You will hear the call to pray and see architecture inspired by centuries of British, Asian, Arabic, Omanis, Indian, and Chinese immigrants. You will see remnants of the Portuguese.

It was an ongoing joke in Kenya that the women did all the work. No where was that more evident than during our trek to Maasai Mara where we traveled throughout Maasai territory. Yes, we get it. Men protect, they hunt and bring home the game. But for the most part, we just saw them shooting the breeze.

 I have never seen greater strength and hustle than what I saw in the Maasai women. Women are responsible for making the houses as well as supplying water, collecting firewood, milking cattle and cooking for the family. The houses they build is a collective effort. They use water, dirt, cow dung and branched, creating structures that last up to 10 years, a chief’s son told me on our tour. Water is far. Tribes without wells (think NGO aide projects etc.) must journey to the nearest river or public water source.