The
polyester leisure suit is alive and well in Tanzania. Well maybe thread
worn and stained, but holding it's own among the more well to do in the
rural population at least. On the bus to Kondoa our conductor looks
dignified and official in his faded lime green affair. Numerous older
men step on, wedging themselves in deeper, immaculately dressed in
matching jacket and trousers. Any wonder? The dust and dirt here is
enough to get a Maytag salesman drooling. Too bad electricity is in such
short supply although they've put up the power poles into the village
(Mnenia) recently...
The
women seem committed to the maximum visual effect, colourful kangas and
kitenges draped over their shoulders, covering their hair and of course
in layers as skirts. The one exception to my generalized observation
would be the Maasai. The men mostly (we only occasionally see the women)
dress in layers of shukas, brightly patterned woven fabric in plaids
of blue and red, green and yellow and flourescent orange and red...(yes!) or all of the above, together. Which cannot begin to describe what it looks like.
These
Maasai herdsmen stand at the side of the road, seemingly miles from
anywhere in blue and red plaids with their ever present
staff/stick/cane, watching their livestock eke out some sustenance from
the (what looks like) non existent vegetation. But this year is an
initiation year and many of those young herdsmen are dressed in black.
Completely in black, every item of clothing black. Except their faces,
white foreheads with various permutations of design and expression on
the cheeks in white face paint, ash likely or flour. A few have ostrich
feathers shooting up from behind their heads, black of course. As we
drive by they stare more intently than I dare to. Out of respect for
their process I took no pictures.
Meanwhile
in the cities their elder brothers walk up and down the streets, cell
phone in hand decked out in colours many women would be challenged
wearing. On their feet the famous Maasai sandal; a chunk of motorcycle
tire with a piece coming up between the toes; a beaded fringe waving
saucily in the air. Although the ubiquitous running
shoe/sneaker/training shoe (I'll name no brands) seems to be making
inroads, pardon the pun.
Back on the bus in rural Tanzania, if you can get a seat, there will
likely be someone sitting beside you. If a woman, she'll be constantly
fiddling with her head scarf, tucking it here, pulling it out there,
occasionally disappearing from view. Possibly to sleep or at least avoid
any eye contact with this heathen infidel. The men are usually more
friendly, their suits staining sweat right through to their jackets.
Asking in their best English where I'm from and for how long, and
expressing incredulous surprise at where I'm living. Almost every man
wears the Islamic hat called taqiyah or kofia. Occasionally a ball cap
and rarely a fedora.
The
availability of western clothing is remarkable (at least to my naive
mind) For 10,000 Tanzanian shillings one can purchase a bale of
clothing, jam packed into a metric cube that when opened -stand back!-
will overwhelm one with such a variety of shirts, pants and underwear to
possibly jade one forever from ever wanting to wear the stuff. T-shirts
with every imaginable slogan, endorsement or "witty" saying, adorning
folks who have no English, no idea what it says. Cheap though, thanks
to the folks who donated these dated, discarded derelicts of a
disintegrating culture to the land of all our ancestors.
This
is globalization in action, the few folks still wearing traditional
clothing fast becoming anomalies in a rapidly moving, corporate driven,
pathological push towards uniformity.
No thanks! I had a shuka made into a shirt and a kanga into pants. Bring on creative dressups!
