Cultural Mishaps and the War with Ants

My war with the ants has begun.

Yesterday morning, I had enough of seeing these colonial arthropod. They had found their way to my coveted baguette-- a textural oasis in the land of stew, rice and beans. This meant war.

I woke up, grabbed a mchungwa (orange), and made my way to the grocery store in the heart of town. I grabbed a few essentials including "Morteim Doom," the most lethal (and biggest) bottle of insect poison I could find. I decided to go to the Italian Supermarket to the wide range of delectable treats. Severely disappointment. It is nothing like a New York Italian Deli where you can buy an enormity of a sandwich over the counter. But, I met my first Western friend-- Alex. She is from Romania and has been working at a resort for a few years. We grabbed a coffee and exchanged numbers-- I am glad that I can ask her any of the stupid Western questions.

When I reached home, I unleashed havoc on the insects. The chemicals swiftly broke down their nervous systems and although I felt some remorse for the buggers and a general sense of disgust that those chemicals were circulating in my kitchen, I felt as though my food was decently safe (other than the DDT particles) for the time being.

Yesterday, a good friend whose house I've been to many times came over to do laundry. (His nickname is Matunda Mwizi or Fruit Thief, because he accidentally picked up our fruit instead of his one day). Now, I have my reservations about this man doing our laundry, but my roommate assured me that he had asked if we needed anything to let him know. This internal struggle relied on two key factors: 1.) I feel as though I can do anything myself, especially laundry and household chores and 2.) I am a mzungu and, more importantly, an American.

This last reason bothers me the most. In my own mind, there should be no reason that I should have special treatment, but it just doesn't work like that here. I don't want to seem ungrateful of the work-- to do laundry takes hours. Scrubbing, buckets, soap, drying-- it isn't like I am throwing detergent and my clothes in the washing machine. I just think that I can do my own laundry, it is only fair. My roommate insisted, though, saying that once you are a grown man, you shouldn't do your own laundry. (This doesn't quite make too much sense, though, since my friend who is doing my laundry is certainly a grown man.) My roommate doesn't do his laundry, either. Although I disagree, I don't want to be culturally insensitive. The best argument, though, is that I give someone a job to do-- giving them some extra funds to help his family.

That night, as we are taking down the clothing, my roommate looks quizzically at my boxer shorts hanging on the line. I asked him what the issue was, and he said-- "You're not supposed to give someone else your underwears. You wash them on your own."

Now, I am mortified. I didn't want to give my laundry away in the first place-- using wealth for services-- and now I make this mistake. This makes an incredible amount of sense, I suppose that I wouldn't want to hand wash someone else's underwear, but I had no clue. I thought long and hard about this and probably overreacted in my own head... but I have made so many of these cultural mistakes already. I guess that this is a very effective way to learn.

This morning, as a jumped on my computer, I saw an ant on the shellcase of my MacBook. When I opened it up, a few were scurrying in an out of the keys, IN THE COMPUTER. I seriously hope that they haven't found a way to chew their way through the circuit board. I can't use my DOOM on them here. It seems like they are attacking me where I am most vulnerable-- my connection to home. Luckily, I think I scared them away with the thunderous typing of this blog. Plus, one fingertip acts as a falling anvil. Only time will tell. I may have won the battle yesterday, but you know the rest.

Signing off,

-Adam