Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

As it turns out, hunter-gatherers don’t eat very much—at least not in the Karatu region of Tanzania. During my three-week tenure in the bush, where I was able to stay with a group of Hadza people, I ate as little as possible, generally while squirreled away in my tent, grinding my teeth on uncooked rice.

I ate my main meal of each day when we “went out to breakfast,” which consisted of picking tart orange berries off the trees surrounding the encampment. The place I stayed was relatively close to the “road” (read: flat dust path) down which onion trucks often lumbered by, kicking up huge clouds of dust.  To do any hunting of actual animals, it was necessary to hike for miles and miles into the dry, sandy wilderness, and this happened rarely. We spent most of our time sitting and drinking locally made corn alcohol, when I offered to pay for it.

Before coming to Tanzania, most of the images of the Hadza that I saw were compiled by an American photographer named James. As it turns out, many of the people I spoke to knew James, and thought he was a real swell guy. Whenever I did something the Hadza family I stayed with didn’t approve of, they would shake their heads and say something along the lines of: “Well, James gave us money whenever we asked for it,” or “James gave us 50 kilos of rice.” (Interestingly, I had occasion to meet him about a month later, and, as it turns out, he is a decidedly unpleasant character.)

I don’t begrudge James for his work, but if his photos were the average outsider’s only exposure to the Hadza, they might be misled, as many are. The Hadza who I lived with generally clothed themselves in T-shirts and shorts. Occasionally, when it was really hot, they would go shirtless, but there was not much in the way of loincloths or elaborate headdresses, which are both abundant in James’ photos.

When I woke up one morning to the rumble of a Land Rover, I was shocked to see my Hadza hosts in full animal-hide regalia, the women's breasts flopping in the breeze, colorful beads adorning heads, arms, and necks. Abdi, the 20-something-year-old patriarch, sheepishly gripped his rarely-used bow and arrows, and the women seemed unsure as to whether or not they should break into song and dance. All accoutrements of modern life (namely, plastic bottles and shoes) were conspicuously absent. Then, I saw why. Fussing and fretting around my Hazda hosts was a white couple with a 35mm camera--obviously a tourist couple.

I introduced myself.

"We're from Orlando," one of them told me. "We're on a cultural safari and are about to go hunting with the Hadza!" They had flown thousands of miles from their homes to experience what they called "fleeting moments of authenticity."

"This is what humans used to be," the man told me. "It gives us perspective."

I told them my scenario as a student, taking pains to make myself sound as smart, cool, and intrepid as possible. They were impressed. But I chose not to comment on the farce of their “authentic experience.” The Hadza were simply playing a part to satisfy the desires of this latest set of tourists, but I didn't think I should point this out.

The juxtaposition of my original expectations—what I saw in James’s books and National Geographic specials, and what these tourists were hoping to find—and what I experienced while living in the bush, were two very different things. I came to realize that the images Westerners have of so-called “native” populations are often projections of our own desires, hopes and fears. It's as if we want to think they hold secrets to living of which we are bereft.

Coming to this realization left me feeling a bit disappointed. I had also been in search of this "authenticity." I had constantly hounded Abdi to make me a bow and arrow so I could have evidence of my semester with the hunter-gatherers. I was disappointed that we only went hunting once during my entire three weeks. I was annoyed when Abdi and others kept asking me for money, food, shoes, and alcohol. But gradually, I came to accept the truth.