A few months ago, I
went to the beach with my housemates, Michael the American Jesuit
(he's wonderful, we just call him “Michael” though), and two
British volunteers who had just arrived and were en route to Dodoma
for their service placement. It was a spur of the moment beach visit,
so I was wearing a floor-length kitenge dress (think traditional
“African”), which is not ideal for swimming in the ocean, but
whatever. I hiked up my skirt and walked right in as the others sat
on the beach and Michael was off swimming somewhere, and in the
process, saw a young woman around my age who was also wading into the
water. Our eyes met, and in her blunt Tanzanian way, she grabbed my
skirt without so much as an introduction, tied it into a
sumo-wrestler style diaper, and pulled my elbow further into the
ocean. We just sort of stood there for awhile, exchanging simple
words in Swahili, and then I invited her to sit with us on the beach.
More silence. We sat. Michael returned from his swim with some little
creature/pricker stuck in his finger. Without many words, she shook
her head at our meager attempts to dig it out gingerly with a pair of
tweezers, took Michael's hand, jabbed the instrument into his poor
finger, and the obstruction was removed swiftly, and probably painfully.
And then we left, and I gave her my phone number.
The next day, she
called and invited me to visit her home in the more rural area of Dar
es Salaam. All of my other housemates were busy, but I was free.
Sure, why not. She told me what bus to get on and the name of the
stop, and without asking any other questions, I was on my way to
visit this stranger I met on the beach, carrying a pineapple to offer
as a gift and a dictionary just in case I ran into trouble. After a
45 minute Daladala ride with a few transfers in between, I was in
unfamiliar territory. Realizing she hadn't given me directions past
“Get off at Temboni”, I gave her a call. She started yelling in
rapid Kiswahili, and all I could make out was that she wanted me to
give the phone to a pikipiki driver. A group of about 10 of these
cat-calling, motorcycle-driving, rough-looking guys had been trying
to convince me to ride with one of them since I dropped from the bus,
so I reluctantly handed the phone over to the most adamant one, and
after a few second conversation, he jerked his head backwards in a
way that said “C'mon! Climb on!”. So I did. And then we were off.
Now, while sitting
on the back of this motorcycle, which had just turned onto a muddy,
rural dirt road and was currently climbing up a pretty treacherous
looking hill, I started to wonder if this was a very good idea. I was
all alone, completely at the mercy of this man driving a motorcycle,
on my way to the house of a woman I hardly knew, who couldn't speak
English, in a district about an hour outside of my home, in a foreign
country where I could just barely squeeze out a conversation. And all
I had was a pineapple to defend myself with. Was this really how my
life was going to end?
To spare you the
suspense, I reached Husna's house in 15 minutes after sharing quite a
pleasant ride through the countryside with Samuel, the intimidating
motorcycle pikipiki driver, who passed the time schooling me on the
pronunciation of all the villages in the area. He also honked his
horn whenever he passed his friends on the roadside and pointed his
thumb back at me, saying “Look guys! I've got a Mzungu!”. I
quickly learned that that was my cue to wave and yell out a Swahili
greeting to the thrilled onlookers, who would respond with a squeal
of joy. What good fun we had, Samuel and I.
Husna
met us as soon as we reached her home, beaming and insisting that she
pay for the the pikipiki ride. She took my hand and brought me to
about three houses to meet her neighbors, and then we climbed up a
small hill to sit on her porch, which overlooked an amazing view of
the rest of the village (I say village but don't think about thatched
roofs and monkeys and all of that George of the Jungle stuff. Village
just means that we were now a fair ways outside of the city, and
there are trees and hills and plants. LOVELY!). We sat for a moment
on her porch as she stirred the ingredients for pilau in her little
coal cooking pot (which happens to be my favourite food here), and I
chatted with the two women who live in the rooms adjoining hers (it's
common for a person or a family to just rent out one room of a unit
and then cook in a common space with a small coal stove). The
dictionary was a hit, considering they didn't know any English and my
Swahili is shameful. Husna and I then walked to the small market down
the street and she bought me a mango. We sat with a group of bros who
were smoking under a tree and Husna clicked her tongue when they
offered a smoke to me. “Eh, we
don't smoke”, she said, and I nodded curtly in support. “Yeah, we
don't.” We were a we
already! I met her sister who owns a medicine shop, her brother who
was passing through the neighborhood, some older people who were
sitting by a church, and pretty much the whole village.
Unfortunately, in addition to the pilau, she cooked cow stomach,
which is just as appetizing as it sounds and tastes exactly like the
way a deodorant-less arm pit smells, but I ate it with a smile and
achieved the most amazing feat of stomach expansion by taking on a
second full plate of Ugali and Beans, cooked by her sister, just to
prove that I knew how to eat with my hands. That sure sent them into
a riot.
Before
leaving, Husna took me into her room and we rested on her bed, like
two girls at a slumber party. She started gossiping to me about how
she once had a boyfriend who was a Mzungu from Italy who is still
living in Dar es Salaam but won't call her anymore. I did all the
things I would have done if this was a conversation with a friend
from home. “You mean he isn't even picking up the phone? Girl, you
don't need him anymore. You want to call him now? You want me
to call him? Teeheheheh ok ok ok ok gimmie the phone gimmie the phone
IT'S RINGING teheheheh oh OH he didn't even pick up! NO he didn't I
think he hung up! Ohhhhhhh yeah I know I know he's lousy but shh sh
sh don't worry don't worry you'll find someone else, really, REALLY
you will!” ...Ok, so maybe my limited Swahili resulted in the
ultra girly exchange, but OH MAN! I'm gossiping with my new best
friend! Things are great! Then she hopped on a bajaji (a rick-shaw
like motorized tricycle thing) with me back to the bus stop, sent me
on my way, and that was that. This visit happened in early January (I
know I know, really delayed on this one), and I just visited Husna
for a second time this week with Kathleen, the new first year
volunteer. Husna and I are in regular phone conversation, and we're
planning on a day for her to come visit Mabibo.
The transition from
“I could very well die right now.” to “This is the best day
ever” was a nice experience in faith and trust. Faith is one of
those words that turns me off. I don't know why, either. It's a
really wonderful and beautiful and picturesque-sounding thing. I just
don't like it. I don't know, maybe I have control issues, maybe it
irks me that “putting it in God's hands” seems like an apathetic
cop-out, maybe (definitely) it's my culture telling me that if I'm
not doing everything in my power to get to where I want to go at the
speed I want to get there, I'm not doing enough. I'm not working hard
enough. Tanzania is a VERY faithful place. There have been moments
when I'm completely in awe of how wonderful it is, and just as many
moments when I want to shake every person who shrugs and says “Well,
there was another awful road accident, it's such a shame, but we
cannot know God's ways, and we just have to keep praying.”.
Praying? No. You should try to regulate traffic laws, or pave more
roads, or NOT pack minivans full of 50 people and babies and
chickens. Faith? What about initiative?
I think that's what
the me of last year would have complained about. Now, I'm starting to
kind of get faith and trust a little bit more. Obviously, it's
important and safe to have doubts about people sometimes, but
if I hadn't trusted Husna, I would have completely missed out on the
opportunity to meet someone amazing. I would go completely crazy in
this country if I didn't just put my trust and faith in something, or
someone, else. There isn't nearly as much control in this country,
and that used to make me so frustrated. But now, it's freeing. I'm
not saying I'm going to make a habit out of jumping onto strange
motorcycles, or that I'm going to sit around doing nothing and say
“it's in God's hands”. I just think it's important to give people
the benefit of the doubt, and to go with the things thrown at you.
Sure, you could run into bad situations. But you could also run into
something good.
