In the middle of… Dole
(Illustration: Marc Herold)
Anyone who comes to Tanzania as a traveler quickly learns a few words of Swahili. “Jambo” (hello), “hakuna matata” (no problem/don’t worry) and “pole pole” (slow down) seem to be the most important holiday words locals think of. Soon we hear “Mzungu” again and again, the children in the sea say it when they see us, the guide in Arusha says there is a “Mzungu Bar” in the city. We learn: Mzungu, that’s us, the whites. Days later, in Zanzibar, a young Tanzanian takes us through a spice farm and explains what the herbs help against. Most claim to make you fertile or cure cancer. He then points to a special perennial and explains that those are mzungu bananas. Strange, one thinks, the bananas are dark red and not white. Then he says with a wink: “This is what you look like when you go out in the sun.” Veronica Wulf
In the middle of… Washington
(Illustration: Marc Herold)
It’s been a few decades since I’ve had to identify myself when purchasing alcoholic beverages. Now it’s that time again, USA stop. Whole Foods Supermarket, Washington. “Can I see your ID?” asks the cashier. I don’t have it with me. Does he mean I’m 17? He didn’t say that, he replies. Would he also ask President Biden for an ID? If he were, the cashier replies and secures the three bottles of beer from my shopping cart. I go home with my vegetables. Three days later, Whole Foods again. In front of me is an older couple, both around 75, they put a bottle of wine on the belt. The cashier: “Your ID, please.” A week later it hits the boss. Not Joe Biden, but the manager from Germany who is visiting. He’s not allowed in the beer garden on 14th Street. His ID? Located in the hotel. Peter Burghardt
In the middle of… Munich
(Illustration: Marc Herold)
A green area in Pasing, playground, sledge hill, dog park. Three boys, eight or nine years old, are digging at the edge of a gravel path, professionally equipped with child-sized picks and shovels. They have already partially uncovered a narrow curb, which they duly admire. “Holy guacamole!” shouts one. “That’s really from the eighties!” The avocado cream, which replaces a more vulgar term in the beautifully rhymed English original “Holy Guacamole”, is an expression of great astonishment. And of course, a stone from another millennium! The guys, who are eagerly working their way into the deeper layers of Munich’s history, are definitely on the trail of something really big. You yourself, born in the sixties, walk past with a smile and feel a bit old. What was it called back then? Holy cow! Ingrid Huigenell
You can find more episodes of the “In the middle of …” column here.