As I sat there kneeling on the ground, sweat streaking down my face, oil and flour all over me I thought….how on earth did I get here? It all started a few days ago, when I ran into my friend Marianne who was on her way into town to buy “chapatis,” a local fried flatbread. But she wasn’t going to get just ordinary chapatis. Oh no, these were the “best chapatis in Bagamoyo.” That sealed the deal, I was determined to go with her, and see where I could get the best in town. Never did I think I would get invited in by two delightful women, who were still cooking the last few batches of the morning, while the kids played in the hallway. Never did I think it would decide to pour down rain at that moment, trapping us in their house for an hour or so…to my amazement, our new friend took us into her room and served us warm milk, fried fish (caught by her husband himself) and of course, warm chapatis, fresh from the stove. As we sat there on the floor, Marianne asking her questions in Swahili while I tried to follow along, I couldn’t help but feel very humbled by her generosity in letting her invade her home. “Nina furaha.” She said overwhelmed, hands clenched to her body. “I’m happy.” You and me both sister, and Marianne added in a “Sisi pia” (so are we). We asked if we could come back and learn how to make chapatis ourselves, and she laughed surprised that we wanted to learn about her work, but happy that we had asked. We agreed to come the next few days.
The next day we came and watched, and played with the children. It was quite a few hours of sitting, but nobody seemed to mind us, just hanging out watching. I thought of how early the women had woken up, and how the children had been sent to do their various jobs. I thought I had understood quite well how it felt to be our friend, working all day, making chapatis. Geeze, no wonder they stop cooking at 1 in the afternoon. That seems like a lot of work. Of course, I had no idea.
Until today. We finally went back for our last lesson. This time, it was our turn. They sat us down with flour, water, salt, and oil, and had us mix mini batches ourselves. The next 20 minutes were a tough mix of kneading, mixing, and cutting dough. My arms were already pretty tired, but I guessed it was the hardest part. We added all the oil, and rolled them into the nice little balls and waited for the stoves to be ready, feeling rather accomplished. Aha, we can do this, I thought.
Never would I have expected that the hardest part was yet to come. As we rolled, baked, fried, turned, flipped, and burnt our fingers on the simple coal stoves, I realized my work was nonstop, and that no breaks were to come. All the kids stood around, laughing, as we burnt our bread and ourselves, attempting clumsily to flip and move our chapatis. The women smiled, encouraging us to finish our work. Finally, after a few hours, we had success in the form of 22 chapatis. Our friends could make 60 in the same amount of time. I know, I watched them do it myself. I learned something that moment. Even though I had watched it myself, doing it was a completely different story. You never know how a person lives until you truly walk in their shoes. And even then, I only tried them on for a day. I will go back to visit those friends of ours, and drink tea with them, and play with their children.
But I will never know what it really is to be the wife of a fisherman, cooking chapatis all morning long, every morning, for the rest of my life. Nor will they ever know what it is to be me, a young woman younger than themselves, who has seen so much more than what is in their hallway. But who’s to say what’s out there is better without having lived that life themselves? When you wake up tomorrow morning, do us all a favor and ask yourself: “What is special about my life? What makes it so great and so important to the world?” Even if you aren’t providing nourishment for your community, if you can find one good thing you do for others, than that’s all that matters.
